


Wayward Son

by hoosiergirl81



Series: Wayward Son [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action, Angst, F/M, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 11:18:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 47,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10763178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoosiergirl81/pseuds/hoosiergirl81
Summary: When a gruesome death brings Sam, Dean, and Ruthie back to a place she tried to leave behind forever, facing her painful past is the least of their problems. If they can't find the mysterious killer in time, one of them will be the next victim. And even if they all survive this case, their relationship may not. -Part III in series





	1. Chapter 1

Dean scrubbed harder at the stubborn bug splat on Baby’s windshield. Ruthie crouched nearby, working on the driver’s side wheel with a stiff-bristled brush. A classic rock station played from the old radio in the corner of the garage.

“I thought Sam was coming to help?” Dean asked her.

She shrugged. “He was glued to his laptop when I came through the library. Said something about maybe finding a case.”

Dean wasn’t surprised. They’d all been burning up with cabin fever. Sam and Ruthie had insisted they all lay low while Dean’s ghoul bite healed, and it had taken weeks for new skin to fill in the gaping hole. They’d killed time at the bunker with rounds of poker and late nights telling Ruthie stories about past hunts. That, and enjoying her cooking. Dean figured he and Sam had each gained ten pounds.

Ruthie had been especially curious about angels and demons. “It’s still hard for me to believe they’re real.” Then she’d crossed her arms and tapped her foot. “When do I get to meet Castiel? I’m starting to think you made him up.”

They hadn’t kept him away on purpose or anything. They’d seen Cas a few times since Idaho, but it had been while they were out on hunts and Ruthie was back at the bunker. It seemed like he was always dealing with some new drama with heaven or other angels, and could never hang around long.

“And Crowley?” Ruthie had seemed incredulous. “You’re on a first name basis with the king of Hell?”

Dean and Sam had exchanged a look. They’d sort of forgotten how freakish their lives were until Ruthie came along.

Dean shrugged. “It’s just one name. Like Prince, or Madonna."

"His mother calls him Fergus,” Sam added.

Ruthie had stared at them for a minute before cracking up. He and Sam had laughed too. It was impossible not to, with her.

It was also becoming impossible for him to ignore her legs in those cutoff jean shorts. Dean forced his eyes back to the bug guts. He’d stuck to his word from that day in the hospital. They had a good thing going here, the three of them. If he started something with Ruthie, it might be nice for a while, but it would end. It always ended. And based on his track record, it would end badly. Most likely with her getting hurt, or worse. Better to keep things like this.

Besides, Ruthie deserved better.

He’d just have to keep on trying not to notice certain things. Like the way her favorite black v-neck shirt hugged her in just the right places, or how the spokes of gold in her eyes shone when he stood near her. How she laughed at his jokes when Sam rolled his eyes. The times he’d glance up from a lore book to find she’d been watching him. The way she’d drop her gaze, and cover her throat with her hand.

He might as well try not to notice hunger pangs, or an itchy mosquito bite, or the smell of baking pie.

Ruthie dipped her brush into the bucket of sudsy water and moved to the back wheel, the last one she hadn’t cleaned yet. Her shorts and racerback tank were still dry; she approached car-washing with the same surgical precision as stitching skin.

“You missed a spot,” he told her.

“Did not.”

He grinned. Of course she hadn’t. He just liked messing with her.

Ruthie stood and walked away from him.

“Hey!” He held his hands out to the sides, dripping soapy water from his sponge onto the garage floor. “Where are you going?”

“Hang on,” she called over her shoulder. “This is important.”

She reached the radio and cranked up the volume. Boston. More Than a Feeling. Ruthie did a dramatic spin to face him, holding the bristle brush up to her mouth like a mic. She reached up with her other hand, then pulled her arm down, making a fist while she enthusiastically lip-synced. “I see my Marianne walkin’ awaaaay…” When the note jumped up higher, so did her hand. She threw her head back, mouth wide open, pointing finger stretched toward the ceiling. “Aaaaaaay!”

Dean fought hard against the smile trying to break onto his face, the sponge still dribbling onto the floor, while she switched to air guitar. He set his jaw and crossed his arms. “I thought we agreed: no more secrets?”

Ruthie dropped her guitar, her playfulness gone. “What?”

“You’ve kept it hidden from us all this time, what a massive dork you are.”

It took a second, but a grin like the one he was holding back spread across her face. She returned to the bucket and dunked her brush while he went back to scrubbing the driver’s side window.

The glass reflected a blur of motion, and Ruthie pounced onto his back, knocking him against the car. Pointy bristles poked into the top of his head and scoured his hair; soapy water streamed over his face and neck. He roared and reached up to grab it from her, but she yanked it out of his reach, cackling like a loon.

He pushed off the car and staggered back. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her arm tight around his neck.

He spat out the water that had trickled into his mouth. “Okay,” he said. “You started it.” He marched over to the water bucket.

“No!” she screamed, dropping the brush and clamping both arms around his neck.

“Gah,” he croaked through a flattened throat. “Ruthie, yer chokin’ me.”

She loosened her grip just a bit, like he’d known she would. He struck like a rattlesnake, grabbing both of her wrists and yanking her arms out to the sides, off of him. She shrieked and squeezed him tighter with her legs.

Damn. She had a good grip.

Dean pulled her left arm over his head so he had both her arms on his right side. He bent over and pulled her down, aiming her head closer and closer to the bucket, while she fought to keep herself upright. She was laughing and screaming too much to manage, though.

He grabbed both wrists in one hand, and her face in the other. Her cackles and shrieks got louder to make up for his hand half-covering her mouth as he pushed her nearly upside-down, straight toward the bucket. Her ponytail sank into the suds; he almost had her head in—

The door banged open; Sam burst into the garage, gun drawn, eyes wide. Dean stopped, and so did Sam.

Sam stared at them for several seconds, taking in the scene. Then he lowered the gun and scraped a hand through his hair. “You two scared the crap out of me.”

“Sorry, Sam,” came Ruthie’s muffled voice through Dean’s hand over her face.

“She started it,” Dean told him.

Sam stuffed the gun into his waistband. “Okay.” He shook his head and started back through the door.

“No!” Ruthie shouted. “Sam, help!”

“Sammy can’t help you now,” Dean rumbled in his best horror movie voice.

She rewarded him with her loudest scream yet.

“Better take a breath,” he warned.

He dunked her head into the bucket, just for a second, and pulled her back out. She came up with her eyes closed, head covered in bubbles, but still managed to spit water onto his face before she coughed a few times and started laughing again. She unwrapped her legs from his waist, and he helped her get her balance before he let go of her arms.

“See what you get?” he asked, while she wiped foam off her face and hair.

“Yeah, I see.” She grabbed her ponytail and flicked it at him, splattering him again. “An unwarranted escalation of force.”

He wiped his face with both hands. “Hey, don’t start nothin, won’t be nothin.”

“Dean!” Sam reappeared at the door, sounding urgent. “Have you run any searches lately on Wendigos?”

Dean frowned. “No. Why?”

“Something I just saw. I think you’d better take a look.”

“I’m almost done with the car.”

Sam nodded. “Okay, that’s fine.”

Dean threw his hands out to the sides. “So why the dramatic entrance, Kramer?”

Sam smirked. “To get your attention.”

A bucketful of soapy water cascaded over Dean’s head, drenching him instantly.

The plastic bucket clattered onto the floor. He couldn’t see Ruthie; he’d closed his eyes to keep the soap out. But her jubilant cackle and sprinting footsteps made it easy to picture her running for her life toward Sam. The smack of a high five. The two of them snickering. Then the door closed.

He stood there alone, water streaming down his legs and into his socks, and found to his surprise that he couldn’t hold back that smile anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

“Did you see his face?” Ruthie asked, still panting, as they walked through the library. 

“We’re gonna pay for that,” Sam said.

“Worth it.” She swept her ponytail to the front and cupped a hand under it to minimize the dripping onto the floor. “I’m gonna go shower.”

“I think I’ll go help him finish up. Maybe that’ll mellow his revenge.” 

Sam went back into the garage, and Ruthie took the stairs to the second floor. She stopped at her room to grab a change of clothes. She didn’t mind the windowless space as much as she’d feared when they’d first brought her to the bunker. The room was small, with bare concrete walls, same as the boys’ bedrooms. She’d added just a couple touches from home: the multicolored quilt, and a framed photo of her with her dad.

When she’d first arrived, Dean had told her she could do whatever she wanted with her room, but he’d better not find any “girly stuff” anywhere else in the bunker. She didn’t know what “girly stuff” meant, but he’d come home from his next hunt to find the library filled with doilies, bowls of potpourri, and lace curtains over imaginary windows. Just like today, the look on his face was worth the trouble she’d gone to.

They’d settled into a comfortable routine since Reeds Spring. Sam was usually up first, making breakfast for them all after his morning jog. They’d sip coffee in the kitchen, skimming the news for any possible cases or signs of their bearded werewolf. They weren't surprised that he seemed to be flying well under the radar. Dean spent hours in the garage tuning up the Impala, probably whispering sweet nothings to her when Sam and Ruthie weren't around. Ruthie studied more of the big, leather bound books in the library, always eager to learn more lore. She’d ask the brothers if they’d ever encountered whichever supernatural being she was learning about. More often than not, the answer was yes.

But some things had been different since that day in the hospital with Dean. She’d forgiven him, and to her surprise, he seemed to accept it. None of them had spoken of that night since. She'd quietly changed his ring and text tones back to normal so the Chris-TEE-na song wouldn't serve as a reminder. And yet, Dean had been different toward her. Nothing drastic, nothing she could really even put her finger on, but she felt it. A distance. Not a wall exactly, but a fence he’d built between them. He never let his guard down around her. She wondered if this was his self-imposed punishment for nearly taking her life—as if getting his face beaten in and almost dying from an infection weren’t enough. Dean wasn’t one to half-ass anything, especially guilt.

But she suspected this change might also have something to do with a different incident in that same motel room, after he and Sam saved her from the witch’s curse. He’d shown a rare moment of vulnerability, letting her see how nearly losing her had shaken him. He broke right through the brittle shell she’d been hiding in. When he held her there on the couch, she felt so safe, so content. Kissing him seemed like such a natural next step. She’d wanted to kiss him since the first day they met, but this was the first time it felt right—inevitable, even. She had seen his eyes, up close. She thought he’d felt the same.

But of course, Sam had arrived with disastrous timing, and the kiss never happened. He'd never tried again, either. Maybe she'd misread him. Maybe he just didn't know how to handle her crying, and wanted her to stop. Or maybe after that awful night, he thought she'd want him to keep his distance. 

She’d started the water fight hoping to get him to relax, to be himself around her again. Not as a means to an end; she wasn’t going to try to make anything happen between them. Staying here was too important to her to mess it up by making things weird with Dean. If he wanted to keep things platonic, then she’d keep things platonic. Whether she wanted more than that was irrelevant. 

Ruthie pulled a pair of shorts and a white t-shirt from her chest of drawers, then headed for the bathroom. Sharing the bunker-style community bathroom with two men had been an interesting transition from the total privacy of her cabin. At least the row of shower stalls had curtains. She pulled a white towel from the shelves at the end of the row and took the third stall. They’d each picked one, and kept their shower stuff in it. Sam had put up a hook just outside hers, so she wouldn’t have to leave her towel on the floor. 

She stepped inside and undressed, piling her wet clothes on the floor outside the curtain. She tossed her ponytail holder on top and adjusted the water temperature. The hot spray felt good after her dunk in the lukewarm bucket. She smiled to herself, remembering their battle. 

Quiet footsteps caught her ear. They came closer, along with a gentle rustling sound. 

This must be Dean, coming to exact revenge already. What was he planning? She knew he wouldn’t pull back the curtain; he’d never do that. He’d probably filled the bucket with ice water and was getting ready to dump it on her from over the curtain rod. 

Ruthie stepped to the far side of the stall, reached up to the shower head with one hand, and pinched the edge of the curtain with the other. She’d wait until he was right outside, then cover herself with the curtain and point the shower nozzle at his face. She held her breath, watching a vague, tall shadow grow larger on the thin vinyl. It loomed closer and closer. The shower scene from Psycho barged into her head; her heart raced. She waited until he was just outside. All at once, she yanked the curtain in around her and shoved the shower head up. Her aim was perfect; hot water sprayed straight into his face—

The face of a man she’d never seen before.


	3. Chapter 3

A terrified scream resounded through the vents. Dean’s head snapped up along with Sam's. _Ruthie._ Their eyes met for a split second—long enough for Dean to see his fear mirrored on Sam’s face—then they were pounding toward the door. Dean's mind raced as fast as he ran. What could have gotten inside? Who knew they were here? Would they be too late? He didn't even have his gun on him, but it didn't matter. If anything had hurt Ruthie, he'd tear it apart with his bare hands. 

Dean flew up the stairs, Sam's footsteps banging right behind him.

“Bathroom!” Sam shouted. 

Dean wished she would scream again. Her silence was far worse.

He reached the top and put on a burst of speed. They charged down the hallway, past her bedroom. His wet shoes skidded on the floor as they whipped around the corner. A shriek—

A wet, white blur crashed into Dean and bounced off him. Dark hair, wide brown eyes—Ruthie. Thank God. She was white-faced, soaking, and naked except for the towel she clutched to her chest. Dean reached out and grabbed her arms before she could fall backward.

“Dean!” she cried, clinging to him. Then she spun, pressed her back against him, and pointed down the hallway toward the bathroom. “He’s still in there.” 

Sam aimed his gun at the bathroom door. He motioned for Dean to stay there with Ruthie, and edged forward. Dean curled his hands protectively around Ruthie's shoulders. He'd shove her down the hallway, out of harm's way if he needed to.

The bathroom door creaked open. A man emerged and walked toward them. His face was wet and dripping. So were the front of his white button-down shirt, blue tie, and trench coat.

Dean scowled at the intruder.

Sam exhaled and lowered the gun. "Ruthie, meet Castiel." 

Her head swiveled between Sam and Cas. “You’re Castiel? I’m so sorry; I thought you were Dean coming to get me back, so I...” She trailed off; then her tone sharpened. “What were you doing in there?”

Cas raised his hands. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you. I assumed you were Sam or Dean. I came to talk.”

Dean rolled his eyes. On their way down, they landed on Ruthie’s wet, bare back. He swallowed hard, and snapped his gaze back up again. 

Too late.

He'd just realized that the towel she clutched to her chest hung straight down, leaving her back uncovered, except by him. When she'd first crashed into him and spun around, he'd been too relieved she was okay to think about the fact that she was half naked. Or about the heat of her uncovered skin seeping through his wet clothes. Now, every cell in his body zeroed in, mapping the gentle slope of her back, the round, perfect curve of...below her back. 

“I shoved an angel,” Ruthie said, sounding mortified. 

Cas gave his head a jerky little shake, looking flustered. "It's okay."

“But I knocked you over!” 

Cas pressed his lips together and looked up at the ceiling. 

Sam did a double take, then gaped at Cas while an open-mouthed grin spread across his face. "She did?"

"The floor was wet," Cas muttered. "I slipped."

Sam threw his head back and laughed, but Dean was too distracted to appreciate the humor. Every molecule was working overtime, memorizing each square inch: the resistance of firm muscle, the warmth of soft skin molding itself to him. This was not helping his Stay-Friends-With-Ruthie plan. He needed to put some distance between them. He couldn't just step back from her; she'd be exposed. But if they stood here like this any longer, his body was going to betray him and tell her exactly how he was feeling at the moment—how he'd been feeling for a long time. Well, he could at least stop touching her. He took his hands off her shoulders, but then couldn't figure out where to put them. Crossing his arms was impossible, and letting them hang at his sides would leave his hands way too close to...places. He held his hands up by his head. "Uh, Ruthie..."

Ruthie turned her head to glance at him. A quick, sharp intake of breath, and her face flushed red. "Oh." She adjusted the towel to better cover herself. “All of you, turn around,” she ordered.

Dean kept his hands up, directed his eyes to the ceiling, and did a grateful one-eighty. Sam and Cas obeyed, too. The towel rustled as she wrapped it around herself. 

He missed her warmth the instant it was gone. He wished he'd waited a little longer.

“Okay,” she said, and they turned to face each other again. “I’m going to finish my shower.” She pointed at Cas. “You’d better still be here when I’m done. I want to meet you properly. Sorry about...” She gestured at his soaked head and front. “And shoving you. But you scared me to death.”

Cas put his hands up again. “I apologize. That was not my intention.”

Ruthie glanced at Dean before she turned away. Her cheeks reddened, her eyes a shade darker than usual. She headed for the bathroom, her bare feet padding along the concrete floor. The white towel emphasized her olive skin and dark hair. Dean’s eyes traced the soft angle of her shoulders, the curving arch of her calves. Her skin had felt so smooth and warm under his fingers, and the way she'd pressed against him—

"Dean?"

He jerked his gaze onto Sam. "What?"

Sam glanced between him and Ruthie, lips twitching, then gestured back down the hall. "We're going downstairs. You coming?"

Dean looked down at himself. He looked like he’d just climbed out of a swimming pool. “I’m gonna go change.” 

"Maybe after a cold shower?" Sam suggested with a smirk.

"Shut up." He went to his room and blindly threw on a dry set of clothes, still consumed with the fresh memory of being so close to Ruthie. How when he had turned away from her, it had felt like peeling off a layer of himself. How his wet shirt had stuck to her like a second skin, as though even it didn't want to let her go. And especially how she'd huddled against him when she was scared, like he made her feel safe. Like she trusted him again. 

Wiping a hand across his face, he added it all to the list of things he shouldn’t think about, and headed downstairs. Sam and Cas sat across from each other at a table in the library. 

"How's Heaven?" Dean asked Cas on his way into the kitchen.

"Heaven is fine."

“No angels trying to kill you?”

Cas took off his coat and hung it on the back of a chair to dry. “No more than usual.”

Dean chuckled as he grabbed three beers from the fridge, then took the seat by Cas. He slid a beer across the table to Sam.

“So, that’s Ruthie,” Cas said. “I’m afraid I didn’t make a very good first impression.”

“Don’t worry about it. She’s cool." Sam said.

"Yeah," Dean added, "she's forgiven a lot worse than that." He didn't elaborate. She might have forgiven him, but forgiving himself was another story. He pushed that thought aside. “So, what brings you here?" Dean asked. "Besides creeping around in our bathroom?” 

Cas looked wounded. “I was not creeping. You weren’t in the library or the kitchen. I went to check your rooms and heard water running—”

“It was a joke, Cas. It’s good to see you.”

"Oh. Well, Ruthie seems...nice."

Dean nodded. “Yeah. She’s extra nice to people who don’t walk in on her in the shower.”

"I didn't—" Cas sighed and gave up. 

Dean took a long swig of beer. “So, what’s up? Did you just miss us or what?”

Bright blue eyes flicked from Sam back to Dean. “I came to tell you something. I’ve heard rumors lately on angel radio. Things I thought you should know about.”

“What’s going on?” Sam asked. 

“I don’t know for sure. But something is happening in Hell. Something big.”

“Who did Crowley piss off this time?” Dean asked.

Cas frowned again. “I haven’t heard whether anyone is angry with Crowley. Although that is usually a safe assumption.” 

The corner of Sam's mouth pulled up. “Why don’t you just tell us what you heard, Cas?”

“Something has escaped from Hell. Something ancient and powerful.”

Sam stiffened. “Not Lucifer?”

“No. Something else. The angels don’t seem to know exactly what it is, but the demons are in an uproar.”

They waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. Dean blinked at Cas. “That’s it? That’s all you know?”

“I’m afraid so. I wanted to give you a heads up.”

Dean tipped his head to the side. “Okay. Ancient, powerful Hell escapee. Sounds fun. At least it’s not our fault this time.” He raised his beer toward Sam, and took another swig. Then he popped one eyebrow up, and shot a look at Cas. “It’s not our fault, is it?”

“I don’t think so. No one has mentioned you.”

Light footsteps padded down the stairs. Ruthie, in a white t-shirt and denim shorts, took the chair beside Sam. Dean slid her a beer across the table. 

She peeked at him from under dark lashes, her cheeks still flushed from the shower. "Thank you," she murmured. She glanced around, then asked Cas, “So, are angels not allowed to drink?”

“I don’t need to eat or drink,” he told her.

“We don’t waste good beer on people who can’t taste it,” Dean added.

“Wow,” she said. “Do you sleep?”

“No. I did for a time, while I was human. It was very inconvenient. Although sometimes I do miss dreaming.”

Ruthie leaned toward him. “What do you miss about it?”

Cas glanced at Sam and Dean. “Well, I don’t have much of what you’d call ‘imagination.’ I only see what’s real. In dreams you can see other things. Things that have never happened.”

“Tell me your favorite dream,” Ruthie said. “I mean, if it’s not too personal.”

Cas looked down at the table. “I was a bee. All I had to do was fly around finding flowers, collecting nectar. It was very relaxing.”

Ruthie smiled. Dean exchanged a look with Sam. He knew neither of them had forgotten Cas’s obsession with bees during his crazy phase.

“Is being an angel stressful?” she asked.

Cas looked up at her. “Frequently, yes.” He motioned at Sam and Dean. “Especially if you’re a friend of the Winchesters.”

She laughed and opened her bottle. “Now there’s a surprise.”

Cas frowned a little. “Actually, considering how often Sam and Dean have gone directly against Heaven’s instructions—”

“Sarcasm, Cas.” Dean rolled his eyes. “We’ve talked about this, remember?”

“Oh, be nice,” Ruthie scolded. She reached across the table and took Cas by the hand. “I’m so glad to finally meet you. I wanted to tell you thank you, for everything you’ve done for them. They talk about you all the time.”

Dean cringed. “She’s exaggerating.” 

Ruthie ignored him and went on. “You’ve been such a good friend to them. I’ve heard the stories. I don’t know what help I could be to an angel, but if there’s ever anything I can do for you, just ask.”

Cas’s eyes crinkled. “Thank you, Ruthie. Any friend of Sam and Dean’s is a friend of mine.”

Dean smiled into his beer at seeing Cas warm up to Ruthie, even while his wet shirt still stuck to his chest. 

They stayed up late, telling stories by the fireplace, drinking, laughing, and eating cold pie straight from the baking dish. Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so normal. So happy.

He enjoyed himself despite one nagging thought in the back of his mind: Winchesters were never happy for long.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean didn’t remember going to bed, but that’s where he woke up the next morning. He rolled over and squeezed his aching temples between his palms. Flashes of the night before trickled in: whisky in front of the fireplace, Cas telling stories, Sam looking happy. Ruthie’s laugh. It had been a good night. Worth a little hangover.

He stumped across the room and pulled on his gray bathrobe before heading down to the kitchen. Sam sat at the table, already dressed and halfway through a plate of bacon and eggs. Sam gestured behind him without looking up from his laptop. “There’s more on the stove. Save some for Ruthie.”

Dean rubbed his eyes and grabbed a plate. “Where’s Cas?”

“Gone. Guess he left after we fell asleep.”

“What?” Ruthie stood in the doorway, looking like a child who’d just had her new toy taken away. “He just got here!”

Dean dumped a pile of scrambled eggs onto his plate. “You never know with Cas.”

Ruthie took a plate from the cabinet and plucked two strips of bacon from the pan. “Well, I hope he’ll come back soon. I like him. I still can’t believe I know an angel.”

Dean scooped the rest of the bacon onto his plate. “You get used to it.”

"Anything on the werewolf?" Ruthie asked Sam. 

He shook his head. "Nothing."

"How about Cas's mystery Hell fugitive?" Dean asked. 

"Well, I don't really know what to look for, but no, nothing that seems big enough."

They joined Sam at the table. “Then at least tell me you found us a case,” Dean said.

Sam finished off his orange juice. “Maybe so. This guy, twenty-eight, a newlywed, totally healthy, turned up dead in his own bed a few days ago, all shriveled up.”

“Shriveled up?” Ruthie asked.

“That’s what it says. No photos online, but this article says people are worried it’s some new disease or virus or something. His wife fainted when she found him.”

Ruthie shuddered. “That’s horrible.”

Dean shoveled in another mouthful of eggs. “You thinking witch?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe."

“Cursed object?” Ruthie ventured.

“Could be.”

Sam pushed away his empty plate. “What do you think? Should we check it out?”

“Yes,” Dean and Ruthie said at once. 

Ruthie popped in her last bite of bacon. “I can be ready to go in twenty.”

“Make it fifteen,” Dean told her. “Let’s get the hell outta here.” 

Ruthie gathered their plates and took them to the sink. "Thanks for breakfast, Sam."

“Where to?” Dean asked him.

Sam looked at his laptop again. He hesitated for a second, then his eyes shot to Ruthie. “Um, it’s Boise, actually.”

She stiffened, hand frozen with a plate hovering over the sink. She slowly set it down and turned toward them, apprehension etched into every line of her face.

“It’s okay if you want to sit this one out,” Sam said. “We get it.”

She took a deep breath, then shook her head. “No. It’s okay. That’s all behind me.” She gestured around the kitchen and gave them a small smile. “I’ve got a new life now.”

“Damn straight,” Dean said, and enjoyed the way Ruthie’s smile widened. She’d come a long way from running off to a cabin in the woods and hiding from the people who’d hurt her. “Screw ‘em." 

She leaned back against the counter and crossed her arms. “So, how do we do this? I can’t be FBI, because we might run into someone who knows me.”

“Good point,” Sam said. “I was thinking maybe CDC would make sense this time.”

Ruthie nodded. “I could be a research assistant, or in training or something.”

“I don’t know,” Dean said. “FBI gets us in places CDC won’t.”

“So we do both,” Sam said. “Ruthie and I will be CDC, and you can be FBI.”

“How about this,” Ruthie said. “I’ll be liaison to the Bureau. Then it won’t look weird for us to be investigating together.”

“Is that a real thing?” Sam asked. 

Ruthie shrugged. “I’ll sell it.” She paused, then tilted her head to the side. “Hey, Sam, you said he was a newlywed. What was his name? The victim?”

Sam consulted the laptop again. “Uh, Brandon Reeves.”

Ruthie turned nearly as white as the vinyl floor. She clutched the countertop behind her.

“Hey, hey, hang on.” Dean jumped up and took her by the shoulders, afraid she was going to fall. “Sit down.” He guided her back to the table and helped her into her chair. He sat beside her and gave her a minute. “You knew him?” 

She gave a shaky nod. “From the hospital. He was a CNA—a certified nurse’s assistant. He was in the ER a lot. He was really nice.” She swallowed and looked down at her hands on the table. “He was my friend.”

Sam put a hand on her shoulder. “Ruthie, I’m so sorry.”

“He and Amy got engaged just before Mike and I did,” she went on. “Amy was in pediatrics with Monica.”

Dean tensed at the mention of Ruthie’s ex-fiancé, and the best friend who’d betrayed her. Maybe he’d run into the guy in Boise. Get under his skin, find a reason to cuff him, rough him up a little. He didn’t realize he was grinding his teeth until Ruthie glanced up at him. He hurried to unclench them and switch back to a concerned expression.

She eyed him for a second before continuing. “Their wedding was set for April,” she said, voice shaking. “Just last month. He was so excited.”

Sam leaned toward her. “You don’t have to do this, Ruthie. We can handle it.”

Again, she shook her head. Her face hardened. “No. I’m coming. I’m going to find out what did this to him.”

“Ruthie — ”

“You heard her, Sam. She’s coming,” Dean interrupted. She was tough. She could handle it. And he didn’t want to leave her behind. He liked having her around. “Anyway, we need our liaison.”

Ruthie gave him a weak smile, then stood up. “I’ll go pack.

 

* * *

 

Nobody talked much during the drive. Ruthie stared out the window, apparently deep in thought. Dean hadn’t turned on the radio. Seemed like that would be disrespectful somehow. 

Sam reached into his bag and pulled out a handful of IDs. “Okay, this job, I’m Dr. Ulrich. Dean, you’re Agent Hetfield.” He handed a freshly forged ID, hanging from a lanyard, back to Ruthie. “I wasn’t sure what title to give you. What should we call you when other people are around? Just ‘Ruthie’ seems too informal.”

She took the ID from him and looked at it for a minute. “I’m not an agent or a doctor. ‘Nurse Trujillo’ would sound weird. Probably just ‘Ms. Trujillo.’”

Dean wasn’t used to using her last name. _Ms. Trujillo._ Why did that sound so damn sexy?

“Where will we start?” Ruthie asked.

“The morgue,” Sam answered. “We’ll need to see the body and talk to the medical examiner.” He watched for Ruthie’s response. “Are you sure you’re up for that?”

She looked down at the ID card again and twisted the lanyard in her hand. She spoke in a low voice. “I’ll let you two handle the body. But I’m going to be there for the rest.” 

Sam nodded. Dean couldn’t blame her. It was always different when it was someone you knew. 

Ruthie sat up straighter. “You guys have to remember that we’re supposed to have just been put together for this investigation. You don’t know me.”

“We know,” Dean said.

“Especially you, Dean,” Ruthie insisted. “You don’t know anything about me or what happened with Mike or Monica, or anything.”

“I know,” he repeated, raising his voice. 

She stared him down in the rearview.

“What?” he demanded. 

“That means if we run into either of them, you can’t be rude or make veiled references or punch anyone in the head. We have to be professional.”

“I am professional!” he half-shouted. “I’m so freaking professional. I’ll out-professional you both.”

She put her hands up. “Okay.”

He glared at her in the mirror before putting his eyes back on the road. “And if I punch him, it’ll be the gut.”

“No.”

“Crotch?”

“Dean!”

Sam jumped in. “So, what if we do run into them, Ruthie? Are you...ready for that?”

She pressed her lips together for a moment. “I have to be. I mean, I don't want to see either of them again. Ever. I feel sick just thinking about it. But I think seeing Monica would be harder. With Mike, I feel like I dodged a bullet. Because obviously I’d never stay with a cheater. But Monica...” She looked out the window again. “Now that I'm going back there, I’ve been trying to figure it out. How she could have done that to me. She never had a relationship last more than three weeks. She always got bored and moved on, but she wasn’t content to be alone, either. I think maybe it had something to do with her mother. Her mom abandoned them. Took off out of the blue when Monica was only five years old.” Ruthie turned back toward Sam, and glanced at Dean in the mirror. “I only took a few psychology classes, but it seems like that could cause a lot of issues.”

Dean tightened his grip on the wheel. “Are you making excuses for her?”

Ruthie didn't get defensive. “No. I think I’m just trying to find a way to make it hurt less. She never even tried to apologize. Like our twenty-some years of friendship meant nothing to her. No one’s ever made me feel so...disposable.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He had to assume he’d made Ruthie feel pretty damn disposable back in that motel in Reeds Spring. A familiar sourness surged through his stomach. She’d forgiven him, but he couldn’t think about that night without shame burning him up like that fever. 

All this touchy-feely relationship talk was making him twitchy. He turned his attention back to the road, and passed the time imagining all the different ways he'd like to punch Mike.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean followed Ruthie’s clicking heels down the narrow hall leading to the morgue. Whatever “CDC Special Liaison to the FBI” was, she looked the part in a white blouse, black blazer, and a black skirt that looked like it had been made just for her. She’d twisted her dark hair up in some sort of fancy knot on her head. She’d even added a slim pair of glasses. Shorten the skirt, cut the blouse lower, add a stack of books, and she’d be his fantasy sexy librarian. Dean didn’t mind letting her take the lead—it meant he got to walk behind her. 

Damn it. He had to stop thinking that way. Ruthie was off limits. He forced his eyes off her, and onto the beige linoleum. 

She reached a set of double doors, and pulled one open. He took the door for her, then followed Sam inside. A short, round man in a white lab coat looked up from a laptop as they entered. A bushy brown mustache seemed to cover half his face. 

“Nurse Trujillo?” the man asked. “Is that you?”

“It’s me, Dr. Ziegler.” Ruthie crossed the room and shook his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

The man glanced at her badge. “CDC, hm? Moving up in the world, I see.”

She gestured to Sam, then Dean. “This is Dr. Ulrich, and this is Agent Hetfield. They’re here to see—”

“Mr. Reeves,” the pathologist finished for her. 

“Yes.”

Dr. Ziegler eyed Dean. “FBI? Is this a criminal investigation?”

“Just a fact-finding investigation for now,” Dean answered. “But we’re not ruling anything out.”

“Have you already performed the autopsy?” Sam asked.

Dr. Ziegler nodded. 

“Cause of death?”

The man’s brown eyes flashed beneath his overgrown brows. “Inexplicable. Which is why you’re here, I suppose.” He went to a cabinet and pulled out a box of surgical gloves, then offered them to Sam, Dean, and Ruthie. 

She declined. “I’ll wait in the hall for you gentlemen.” 

Dean gave her a nod. Dr. Ziegler went to a wall lined with big steel drawers, and grasped a handle. Ruthie’s heels tapped faster on her way out the door as he pulled it open.

Dean had seen a lot of freaky things in his life. Plenty of bodies. But _damn_. 

No one would have guessed this poor bastard had been twenty-eight years old. Grayish skin stretched taut, like dried out leather, over his gaunt face. The shape of his skull stood out: sunken temples, jutting cheekbones, hollow cheeks. His lips had shrunk, pulling back from his teeth in a sickening grimace. Dr. Ziegler pulled the white sheet down to Brandon’s waist. Sharp shoulders and elbows protruded from broomstick arms. His collarbones, sternum, and each rib stood out, distinct beneath withered skin. He reminded Dean of pictures of starving people in Africa. Except for his stomach. The ones in the Africa photos were swollen. His was caved in. No wonder his wife had fainted.

This wasn’t just another body, another case. This was nightmare fuel. Dean glanced back at the door, grateful Ruthie had left.

Dr. Ziegler was watching them, apparently curious to see the feds’ reactions. Sam appeared to be examining the body, but he had covered his mouth with his hand. Dean tried to focus on the medical examiner’s impressive ‘stache, rather than the shriveled gray thing on the slab. “You said the cause of death was inexplicable. What can you tell us?” Dean asked. “Anything you do know?”

Ziegler bristled. “Of course. I consulted his medical records. He was the picture of health. Strong heart, clear lungs, low cholesterol. They tell me he worked here, although I don’t really know any of the CNAs.”

“Tox screen?” Sam asked.

“Clean.”

Sam nodded. “What did you find when you opened him up?”

The man leaned across the body. “It’s what I didn’t find, Doctor, that is significant.”

“Was he missing organs?” Dean asked.

Ziegler frowned. “Of course not.” He turned back toward Sam. “Liquid. Blood, saliva, bile, CSF.”

“CSF?” Dean asked.

“Cerebrospinal fluid,” Sam answered.

Dean glanced sideways at his brother. “Showoff,” he muttered under his breath.

“Not only that,” Ziegler went on, “but the water content in the entire body seems to have just…evaporated.”

“Severe dehydration?” Sam asked.

“This goes beyond dehydration. This is desiccation. Organs, arteries, muscle tissue, all completely dried out.” He held up a finger. “The blood didn’t disappear altogether, mind. It’s turned to powder. Powdered blood in dried out, withered veins.”

Dean held up both hands. “Wait. You mean like powdered milk? Just add water?”

Ziegler tilted his head to the side. “More or less.”

“How is that possible?” Sam asked. 

The ME crossed his arms. “Isn’t that what you’re here to determine?”

Sam hurried on. “Any injuries? Even small ones. Puncture wounds, bruising?”

Ziegler raised an eyebrow. “You think he was injected with something?”

“We don’t know. We’re just gathering data.”

The man eyed him a moment longer, then turned his attention to the body. He put one gloved hand on Brandon’s forehead, and used the other to open his jaw. Brittle brown gums receded from dull, dry teeth. A crisp, shrunken tongue had hardened in place at the back of his mouth. Dean had to fight to keep his breakfast in his stomach.

“Interesting that you asked.” Ziegler produced a slim light and shone it into Brandon’s mouth. “Just there, beneath the tongue. You see? It’s hard to say, with the desiccation, but there appears to be a small puncture wound.” 

Dean made himself look. Sure enough, a tiny spot, darker than the rest of the unnaturally brownish-gray mouth. Good enough. He straightened and gave Ziegler a thumbs-up. “Good eye.”

“Uh, thank you?” The doctor turned to Sam again. “Do you always bring the FBI along?”

Sam gave Dean the side eye. “Only when forced.”

Dean glared back at him before addressing the doctor once more. “Dr. Ziegler, have you ever seen anything like this before?”

The man shook his head. “Never.”

“I’ll need to see the hospital records, dating back before you were here.” Sam said.

“Sure,” Ziegler told him. “But we’ve only got twenty-some years of them. There was a fire, and all we had were paper records back then. The woman in the records office can tell you all about it.” Something buzzed, and the pathologist pulled a phone from his lab coat pocket. “I’m late for a meeting. I trust you can wrap up here and show yourselves out?”

“Of course,” Sam said. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Ziegler bustled out of the room. 

Dean took a half step back from the body. “So, what do you think? How did our pal Brandon end up the Crypt Keeper?”

Sam gave him a blank look. “Huh?” 

“You know. The Crypt Keeper. Tales From the Crypt? He’d pop out of the coffin and laugh, like this.” Dean did his best maniacal cackle.

Sam just raised his eyebrows.

Dean threw his hands out to the sides. “The TV show, when we were kids. Tales From the Crypt!”

“Whatever you say.” Sam turned back to the body. “I’ve never seen anything like this. You got any ideas? Some new superpowered vampire or something?”

“No. This is beyond vampires. I still think we need to look for cursed objects.”

“We’ll check, but this seems beyond cursed objects, too.” Sam shook his shaggy head. “I mean, basically freeze-drying someone? Turning their blood to powder? What can do that?”

“I don’t know, man. Nothing good.”

“Do you think it’s got something to do with what Cas told us?”

Dean shrugged. “We can check his house for sulfur, but this doesn’t seem demon-y.”

Sam grimaced, and pulled the sheet up over Brandon’s head. “I’m glad Ruthie skipped this.” He pushed the drawer back into the wall. They peeled off their gloves and tossed them into the trash on their way out the door.

Ruthie was leaning against the wall in the hallway, waiting for them. She straightened as they got close. “Well?”

“We don’t know,” Sam told her. “This is something we’ve never seen before.”

“So now what?” she asked.

“We dig some more,” Dean said. “I’m gonna interview hospital staff, nurses, anybody here who knew him. We’ll need to talk to his wife too. Search the house.”

“I’m going to go through the hospital records,” Sam added. “See if anything like this has happened in the area before, maybe before Ziegler’s time.”

“A fire destroyed all the records back in the nineties,” Ruthie said.

“We heard,” Sam told her. “I’m still going to check. Hopefully talk to someone who was here before the fire.”

Ruthie nodded. “I think I’ll go with Sam.” She gave Dean an apologetic shrug. “You’ll get farther with your interviews without me there.”

“Okay, then. Let’s get to work.”

 

* * *

 

Sam followed Ruthie through a maze of hallways, up an elevator, and through another several corridors to a door marked simply, “Records.” Behind it, a short, white-haired woman perched behind a big desk. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses hung from a beaded chain around her neck. When she saw Sam, she patted her short, curly hair, sat up straighter, and smiled. “May I help you?” she asked in a mousy voice.

“Yes,” Ruthie said, peering at the nameplate on the desk. “Phyllis, is it? I’m Ruthie Trujillo, and this is Dr. Ulrich, from the CDC. We need to review any death certificates you have with an undetermined COD.”

Phyllis addressed her response to Sam. “Certainly. I’m at the CDC’s disposal. What time period do you need, Doctor?”

“Everything you’ve got,” Sam said.

“Alright. That’s twenty-three years’ worth. We had a fire—”

“Yes, I’ve heard,” Sam said. “Phyllis, were you working here at the time of the fire?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I’ve been here forty-two years this fall.”

“Wow, that’s great. Tell me, this Brandon Reeves case: can you recall hearing of one like this before?”

She set down her pen. “Doctor, you’ve come to the right place. Everyone around here is talking about it, you know, and they all keep saying they’ve never seen anything like it. Well, that’s just because they weren’t here when it happened the first time. Most everybody who was has moved or retired now.”

Sam and Ruthie exchanged a wide-eyed glance. 

“Yes, a few years before the fire. Twenty-five years ago, I guess it was. Same thing.” She sighed. “Poor man. I’ve forgotten his name now. They brought him here because the hospital closest to the little town where they found him wouldn’t take him. They were afraid it might be contagious.” She shook her head sadly. “He had a sweetheart. They found a diamond ring in his pocket.”

“That’s…too bad.” Sam said. “But the body? You said it was the same as Brandon Reeves?”

“Dried up like an old raisin.”

“Did you see it yourself?” Ruthie asked.

“Heavens, no. But the pathologists talked about it.”

“Is anyone who saw the body still here?” Sam asked.

She shook her silver head. “Not anymore. Dr. Connors was the ME back then. Been retired at least ten years now.”

Sam took a shot. “Does he still live around here?”

Phyllis’s pale blue eyes twinkled at him. “Yes, she does.”

“Could you put us in touch with her?” Ruthie asked. “She might really help with our investigation.”

She eyed Sam again, all smiles. “Happy to. I don’t think Dr. Connors would mind speaking with a handsome young doctor from the CDC.”

Sam grabbed a pen and scribbled his number on a post-it note. “Thank you, Phyllis. I appreciate your help.”

“Don’t mention it.” She winked at him. “Come see me again, Doctor.”

He and Ruthie headed back down the hallway, until Ruthie pulled him aside in a quiet corner away from prying ears. Her brow furrowed, shading her dark eyes. “What is this, Sam? Some creature that hibernates for twenty-five years between attacks? Is there such a thing?”

“We just don’t know enough yet. It could be. Or it could be a cursed object that’s resurfaced.” He raked a hand through his hair. “We gotta keep digging.”

Ruthie folded her arms and looked back down the hall toward the Records office. “Well, at least we know Phyllis is eager to help you.” The corners of her mouth twitched.

Sam rolled his eyes and started down the corridor again. Ruthie snickered and followed. 

“We should talk with Amy next.” Sam watched her for a few seconds. “You said she works in the same department as Monica, right?”

Ruthie pressed her lips together and nodded.

“And once we talk to Amy, Monica will know you’re back in town.”

Her heels tapped harder, echoing down the hall. “Everyone will know.” 

They walked on in silence. Then Ruthie took a deep breath and slowly blew it out. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m not here for them. I’m here for Brandon.” She looked up at him, a mixture of defiance and resignation on her face. “This isn’t about me.”

Sam wanted to put his arm around her, but a couple of nurses appeared up ahead, walking toward them. He had to keep their cover. He settled for lowering his voice and telling her, “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here with us. And if you change your mind about anybody needing punched, just say the word.”

Ruthie giggled and raised her chin as the two nurses stared and whispered while they passed.


	6. Chapter 6

The receptionist at the ER hadn’t taken kindly to an FBI agent asking for permission to wander around, interviewing the doctors and nurses on duty. She’d asked to see a warrant, and Dean couldn’t convince her that asking questions did not require a warrant. He’d thrown everything at her: the bashful grin, a compliment about her eyes; he’d even said “please” when he got desperate. She was a brick wall. He finally told her he'd come back later with a warrant—meaning he’d come back later when she wasn’t there. 

He found a hospital directory in the main lobby and headed to the elevators. Pediatrics was on the third floor. Ruthie had said Brandon’s wife worked in that department. Seemed like the next best place to go. He flashed his badge at a pretty black woman in Minnie Mouse scrubs at the front nurses’ station. Her eyes widened. “Can I help you?”

“I’m investigating Brandon Reeves’ death. I need to talk to anyone here who knew him or his wife.”

“Um, sure. Most of us knew Brandon at least a little. And we all know Amy.”

Dean pulled out a little notepad and pen. “Did you see Brandon at all in the weeks before his death?”

She nodded. “He worked a few shifts in Pedes this month.”

“Did you notice anything strange or different about him? How he looked or acted, anything like that?”

“Not really. Um, he started carrying a water bottle with him the last few weeks I guess; that was new. And I heard him say he was tired. He did look pretty tired, now that I think about it. I figured he’d been having too many late nights. They were newlyweds, you know.”

Dean jotted a note. “What about his behavior? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“I don’t think so. He was always bringing Amy flowers and leaving notes, just like before the wedding. Actually, more than before the wedding. They were that couple, you know? Like every day was Valentine’s. He seemed normal. Just tired.”

“How can I get in touch with Amy?”

She glanced at a passing nurse. “Well, she’s on bereavement leave right now. I don’t know when she’ll be back at work. She's been planning the funeral, but she doesn't know when they'll release the body.” Her voice dropped at the end. She cleared her throat and blinked several times. 

“I understand. Do you have a number where I can reach her? We’re doing everything we can to find out what happened to her husband.”

She watched him for another few seconds. “Sure. I can give you her number.”

Dean walked the halls of the pediatric department for a while, showing his badge and questioning passing nurses and orderlies. He figured out pretty fast that the doctors didn’t know anything about a lowly CNA. He heard the same things from the rest of them: Brandon was a nice guy, nobody would want to hurt him, he and Amy were the perfect couple, he had seemed a little tired the past few weeks. A few mentioned the water bottle, and some others said he’d complained of having headaches. 

Dean pocketed his pen and notepad, and made his way back out of the pediatric unit, eager to get out of there. He couldn’t get used to room after room of little kids in hospital beds, some of them bald, some skinny, some with sunken eyes. How could people keep coming to work here, week after week? He’d take demons and monsters over this any day.

He reached the double exit doors just ahead of a blonde nurse in light blue scrubs he hadn’t interviewed yet. He held the door open for her with one hand, and raised his badge with the other. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Her eyes went wide. “FBI? Oh my God. Is this about Brandon Reeves?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She made a face and smacked a fist into her chest. “Ow! You just ‘ma’amed’ me. Do I look that old?”

“What? No, I just—”

“You were just being polite.” A mischievous sparkle brightened her already bright eyes. “Don’t mind me. I like to tease.” 

Dean sized her up. She didn’t look old at all; she was younger than him, for sure. She looked maybe thirty, with clear, smooth skin, and curves in exactly the right places. Hospital scrubs couldn’t disguise them. Her straight blonde hair was cut in one of those bobs that was shorter in back and longer in front, with silky sections framing her oval face. She had a wide, Cheshire Cat mouth, which made her smile almost overpowering despite her thinnish lips. 

They walked across the hall together to the elevators. “Going down?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then you can ask me your questions on the way.” She pushed the down button. Her expression turned serious. “It’s so sad about Brandon. I didn’t know the FBI was getting involved. I thought it was some rare disease or virus?”

“We’re looking into every possibility.” Dean pulled out his notepad again. “How long have you known him?”

“About four years, I guess. I think that’s how long he’s worked here.”

“Did you notice anything different or unusual about him in the last few weeks? Any changes in behavior?”

The elevator dinged, and they stepped inside together. They had it to themselves. Even in the larger-than-normal hospital elevator, being enclosed in a small space with her felt strangely intimate. He hadn’t been alone with a woman other than Ruthie in…hell, so long he couldn’t remember. He wondered if he’d put on enough deodorant. He pulled his shoulders back and stood up straighter.

“Um, he did seem tired.” She looked like she was about to say more, but then her gaze dropped to her hands. She started picking at her nails.

Dean paused. “Okay. What else?”

She glanced around the elevator, as if she were worried someone was hidden in a corner. “Is this anonymous?”

“Completely.”

Her lips twisted for a second, then she stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Okay. You did not hear this from me. But Brandon told me that Amy started acting weird after the wedding.”

Green eyes peered up at him from beneath blonde lashes. Her perfume, sweet and spicy, filled the elevator. Dean tore his gaze from her face and pretended to scribble on his notepad. “Uh, weird how?”

“He said she was acting suspicious and paranoid toward him. Nothing anybody else would notice, but he did because he knew her so well. He seemed pretty worried about her.” She leaned closer to see what he was writing, then looked up at him with wide, anxious eyes. “Amy’s my friend. I only told you this in case it helps you find out what happened to Brandon.”

He nearly put a comforting hand on her arm, before he remembered FBI agents didn’t do stuff like that. “Understood. I appreciate it. Every piece of information helps.” He pulled a business card from his jacket pocket and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else, gimme a call.”

She glanced down at the card. “You got it, Agent Hetfield.” She tilted her head to the side, eyes still downcast, and rubbed her ear. “And what if I can’t think of anything else? Can I still give you a call?” When she looked back up at him, her cheeks were slightly pinker than before.

Before Idaho, Dean would have said yes right away, probably asked what time he should pick her up that evening. Might have made out with her right there in the elevator. But now, with this hot nurse standing right in front of him, flirting with him, all he could think about was Ruthie. How she’d feel if he hooked up with this chick. How he’d feel. Well, he already knew that one. He’d feel guilty. He was a pro at that. 

His neck stiffened. This was stupid. Why should he feel guilty? So what if he felt something for Ruthie. He was never going to act on it. He and Ruthie were friends—no, they were family—and they were going to stay that way. She was too important to him, and to Sam, for him to risk screwing it all up. What was he supposed to do, become a priest or something? Stay celibate the rest of his life?

He put on his bar smile. “Sure. Call me anytime.”

She smiled back, a Julia Roberts grin with thinner lips.

The elevator slowed and the display showed an “L.” Dean held out his arm, letting her exit before him. As they stepped into the lobby, she said, “A little birdie told me you’re here with the CDC.”

Dean pocketed his notepad. “It’s a joint investigation.”

She nodded. “So you know them? The doctor and the woman here with the CDC?”

Dean wasn’t sure where she was going with this. “Only professionally. Why?”

“Rumor is that the woman is Ruthie Trujillo. She used to be a nurse here, until late last year. Is it true?”

News did travel fast. No point in lying. “Yeah, I think Ms. Trujillo mentioned she used to work here.”

Her eyebrows traveled up an inch; her head drew back. “Wow. Go Ruthie. Working for the CDC, traveling around with handsome FBI agents.”

Dean’s chest puffed out a bit, until he pictured Ruthie rolling her eyes at him. Before he could decide how to respond, she continued. 

“I’m not surprised. She was always better than this place. Did you know doctors from other departments would request her sometimes, when they were getting patient histories? Patients don’t always tell the truth, and it makes our job harder. But we called her ‘Tru,’ because she could always tell when someone was lying.”

“Not always,” came a voice from behind him.

Dean turned to see Ruthie and Sam walking toward them. Ruthie’s smile looked as tight as a stripped screw. She stopped beside him, staring holes into Hot Blonde Nurse. “So, Agent Hetfield. I see you’ve met Monica.” 


	7. Chapter 7

Ruthie thought she’d prepared herself. But the sight of Monica simpering up at Dean, standing too close to him, sent hot blood coursing through her face like a fever. Ever since they were teenagers, she’d watched that look render one guy after another powerless, hopelessly under her spell. And it looked like Dean was no exception. At least saying Monica’s name helped snap him out of it. His brows had jumped up, then lowered into a creased frown. He obviously hadn’t known who he was talking to. 

Monica looked at Ruthie for a moment, her expression unreadable, then she returned her attention to Dean. “I’m sorry, Agent; I never introduced myself. I’m Monica Nelson.” She stuck out her hand. Dean hesitated a moment before shaking it, a frown on his face. Then she turned back to Ruthie, and her whole demeanor changed. Shoulders hunched, her eyes fell to the floor. She spoke in a soft, subdued voice, so unlike her usual sparkly tone. “I was starting to think I’d never see you again.”

Ruthie definitely hadn’t prepared herself for this contrite Monica. The anger surging through her system had nowhere to go with a greeting like that. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Sam stepped forward, God bless him. “I’m Dr. Ulrich,” he said while he shook Monica’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” He didn’t smile. He turned to Dean. “Agent Hetfield, are you ready to debrief with me and Ms. Trujillo?”

Dean took a half step back from Monica. “Uh, yeah. Let’s debrief.”

Ruthie gestured toward the exit. “This way, gentlemen.” She sneaked one last look at Monica, who was still peeking up from a bowed head, the picture of repentance. But her green eyes lingered on Dean. Ruthie raised her chin and marched toward the door. Sam and Dean’s footsteps followed her.

As soon as they were outside, Sam came alongside her. “You okay?” he asked in a low voice, while nodding to a passing doctor.

Limbs trembling, she nodded, but it was all she could do not to burst into furious tears. She thought the damage had scarred over, that Monica’s betrayal couldn't hurt her anymore. But seeing her, especially looking at Dean that way, had ripped the scab away, revealing the still-raw wound just underneath. She whipped around to Dean. “What did she say to you?” Her voice lashed out like a sharpened blade. 

Dean loosened his tie, eyes darting back toward the hospital entrance. “Not much. Uh, she did say the same as a lot of them, that he’d been tired. And he told her his wife started acting weird after the wedding.”

Dean shifted his feet, still tugging at his collar. Ruthie realized her hands were balled into fists, her jaw clenched tight. If she looked half as angry as she felt, no wonder he was acting so uncomfortable. She told herself to pull it together. Hadn’t she lectured Dean about staying professional? She took a deep breath and tried to relax her tense muscles. “Amy?” she asked. “Weird in what way?”

“Suspicious of him. Paranoid. Said he was worried about her.”

The three of them exchanged a look. 

“How well did you know Amy?” Sam asked.

“We were friendly, but not close. Monica knows her a lot better than I did.” Saying that name left a bitter taste in Ruthie’s mouth. She tried not to let it show. “They work together.”

Dean patted his jacket, over the inner pocket. “I’ve got her number. We should pay her a visit.”

Sam’s phone chirped. He answered it, “This is Dr. Ulrich.” He listened for a moment. “Yes, Dr. Connors, thank you so much for calling.” Another pause. “Right now? Sure.” He gave them a thumbs up. “Okay, see you soon.”

Time to break the tension, to prove to the boys—and herself—that she could handle working this case. “Wow,” Ruthie said as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Phyllis didn’t waste any time.” She gave him an exaggerated wink. “I bet you could get a date out of this.” 

“Shut up."

They piled into the Impala, and she filled Dean in on the way. 

Dr. Connors’ brick, ranch style house sat in a quiet neighborhood shaded by big trees. Sam tapped a brass knocker three times, and a silver-haired, sharp-eyed woman came to the door. She wore stylish pants and a navy blazer. “Ah, Dr. Ulrich, I suppose?” she asked.

“Yes.” Sam indicated Ruthie, then Dean. “These are my colleagues, Ruthie Trujillo with the CDC, and Agent Hetfield with the FBI.”

“Come in, come in.” She waved them inside, and they followed her into a tidy living room. She motioned for them to sit on a flowery sofa across from her mauve armchair. “Tea?” she offered. After they each accepted a steaming cup, she addressed Sam. “So, I believe you’re here to discuss a particular case from twenty-five years ago?”

Sam swallowed his first sip and set his teacup onto its saucer. “Yes. We have a case now, and it sounds like it’s almost identical to the one you had back then. With the hospital records lost, you’re the only one who can tell us about it.”

“Well, I’m not sure how much help I’ll be. I’m just as flummoxed today as I was back then.”

“You never know, Dr. Connors. Sometimes one small detail is all it takes. What can you tell us?”

“Knowing Phyllis, I expect she’s already told you most of the pertinent facts.” She gave him a mischievous smirk. “She’s always had a taste for tall, handsome doctors.”

Sam’s neck flushed, and Ruthie hid her smile behind her teacup.

“Let’s see.” Dr. Connors peered up at the ceiling. “That would have been the summer of 1990. His name was Bennet, I believe. Steven Bennet. Thirty-three, white, a mail carrier out in one of the little forest towns northeast of here. Washington Mill, I think?”

Ruthie froze mid-sip. That was her hometown. She didn’t remember ever hearing anything about a shriveled body. Of course, she’d only been four years old at the time.

Dr. Connors continued. “The hospital in Idaho City wouldn’t accept the body. They were terrified it was some new plague. I wasn’t too keen on doing the autopsy myself, to be honest. I demanded a hazmat suit.”

“What was the body like?” Dean asked.

“Like a mummy. Leathery and gray and completely dehydrated.”

Ruthie lowered her teacup, overcome with the image of Brandon as a withered mummy. From the corner of her eye, Dean shot her a concerned glance. 

“What about the internal organs?” Sam asked. 

Dr. Connors’ hawklike eyes darted to him. “Desiccated, like the rest of the corpse. Blood turned to powder.”

“Did you notice any wounds?” Dean asked. “Even small ones?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. I remember, because it was odd. I didn’t know what to make of it. I found a very small puncture wound inside his upper lip.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. Ruthie made a mental note to ask about it later. 

"Where was he found?" Sam asked.

"In bed, I believe. Or rather, on his bed. He was shirtless, but still wearing his pants. His housemate found him."

“Dr. Connors,” Ruthie asked, “were you able to get a patient history? Speak to any family or friends, find out if he’d had any previous symptoms?”

The woman nodded. “His parents were both deceased, but I did speak with the housemate, as well as his girlfriend. The housemate—I can’t recall his name; I’m sorry—told me Bennet had been behaving a bit erratically. Keeping odd hours, getting home from work later than usual, that sort of thing.”

“And the girlfriend?” Sam asked. “Phyllis said he’d been about to propose.”

Dr. Connors nodded. “I found the ring in his pocket. The young woman was a little surprised by that. She said she believed they’d get married eventually, but had no idea he already had a ring. She said he’d been acting strangely, too. Working longer hours, then being extra sweet and affectionate toward her. She and the housemate both said he seemed tired, and had complained of headaches and thirst in the weeks leading up to his death.”

“Is there anything else you can remember?” Ruthie probed.

She paused for a moment. “There was one more thing the girlfriend said that stayed with me. She told me that about a week before he died, Bennet called her in the middle of the night, crying. He kept saying he was sorry, but he wouldn’t say what for. She thought he must have been drunk. When she asked him about it the next day, he either didn’t remember it, or pretended he didn’t.”

The quiet moment that followed was interrupted by a slurping noise. Ruthie shot a sideways look at Dean, who peered at her with innocent eyes over the rim of his teacup. “It’s good,” he mumbled.

After finishing his tea much more politely, Sam produced a business card and handed it across the coffee table to their hostess. “Thank you so much for your time, Dr. Connors. If you think of anything else, please give me a call.”

She nodded. “And if you ever figure out what in the world the COD was on these, please give _me_ a call. This has been the great unsolved mystery of my career.”

“We’ll do what we can,” Sam hedged. 

They thanked her for the tea and climbed back into the car. Dean spoke up first. “So, we’ve got patterns. They mean anything to you?” he asked Sam.

Sam frowned. “I’ve been racking my brain, but I can’t think of anything. This is a new one.”

“Guess we need to hit the books,” Ruthie concluded. “Hey, what was with the puncture wound? Did you find one on Brandon?”

“In his mouth,” Dean said. “Just below the tongue.”

“Injection site?” Ruthie wondered. “Could this be some type of poison?”

Dean shrugged. “Can’t rule anything out yet. Why the mouth, though?”

No one answered. None of them knew.

Dean pulled out his phone. “Let’s see if the wife is up for a visit.”

As he backed out of the driveway, Ruthie wanted to interrupt, to ask him if Monica had said anything else. She wanted to know why they’d been standing far more closely than professionalism dictated. She told herself it was just her hurt and anger making her overreact. Dean had looked displeased when he’d learned who he’d been talking to. She’d have to comfort herself with that. 

Dealing with the barrier Dean had built between them was already bad enough. Putting him on the defensive might make him widen it. 

She could handle anything but that.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam and Ruthie waited behind Dean as he rang the doorbell of the narrow, two-story town home on a quiet side street in Boise. Sam noticed Ruthie fidgeting with her bag—she must be nervous to see yet another face from the past. On their way over, she’d told them Amy had been one of the few nurses who hadn’t taken sides when everything blew up between her and Monica. Ruthie had been surprised, since Amy and Monica were close. She suspected she had Brandon to thank.

The deadbolt clicked, and the door swung open to reveal a petite strawberry blonde with delicate, doll-like features and soft brown eyes. She wore the pale, puffy-eyed look of a woman who’d spent days crying herself to sleep. A dull ache throbbed in Sam's chest.

Dean nodded at Amy in greeting. “Mrs. Reeves, I’m Agent Hetfield—”

“Ruthie!” Amy flung herself across the porch and threw her arms around Ruthie’s neck. “What are you doing here? You disappeared! Brandon was so worried…” She pulled back, and her eyes filled with tears. She buried her face in her hands, and began shaking.

Ruthie put a comforting arm around the smaller woman. “I’m so sorry, Amy. Let’s go inside, okay?” She steered her back through the doorway. Sam and Dean followed. Ruthie sat Amy down on a love seat in the modern living room, while Sam and Dean took the adjacent sofa. Amy was still sniffling, her face hidden behind her hand. Sam spotted a kleenex box on a side table and handed a tissue to Ruthie, who passed it to the crying woman.

Amy mopped her nose, and took a deep, shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That happens a lot lately.”

Her grief, so fresh and raw, sharpened the echoing ache around Sam's heart. “It’s okay,” he told her. “No need to apologize. We’re very sorry for your loss.” He gestured at himself. “I’m Dr. Ulrich, with the CDC.”

Before he could introduce Dean, she reached out and put her little hand on his. “Thank you so much for coming, Doctor. It means a lot, you coming all the way from Atlanta to find out what happened to Brandon.”

An unexpected pang of guilt shot through Sam’s chest. He was lying to this poor woman. Her sincere, fragile smile made the back of his throat go tight. He cleared it. “Of course.” He gestured to Dean. “Uh, that’s Agent Hetfield, with the FBI, who you spoke with earlier. And you already know Ruthie.”

“I’m with the CDC now,” Ruthie told her before she could ask. “Special liaison to the FBI.”

Amy regarded her with wonder. “Wow, Ruthie. That’s great. I’m really happy for you.” Then she looked at Dean, eyebrows squeezing together. “But why is the FBI involved? Do you…do you think someone killed Brandon?” Her eyes darted to Sam. “With some sort of weaponized virus or something?”

Dean shook his head. “We’re only following leads right now, ma’am.”

Sam leaned forward. “Mrs. Reeves—”

“Actually, I kept my maiden name. Spencer. But please, call me Amy.”

Dean took out his notepad and jotted something down.

“Amy,” Sam went on in his gentlest voice, “we’re here to learn everything we can about out what happened to your husband. What can you tell us about the past few weeks, or even months? Did he have any symptoms of discomfort, any pain? Did he complain of any health-related issues?”

Her eyes welled up and she dabbed at them with the crumpled kleenex. “Yes. He was always tired. He complained constantly about headaches, and he was always drinking water.” Her voice quavered. “I thought he’d just caught some bug; I didn’t know…”

“How could you?” Ruthie said, squeezing her hand.

“About when would you say he began having those symptoms?” Sam prompted.

“They started almost as soon as we got back from our honeymoon. So, about three weeks?” Her chin quivered, and she bowed her head again.

Sam passed Ruthie the whole kleenex box.

“What about any new items in the house?” Sam asked.

She blinked a few times. “Well, we got lots of wedding gifts. Dishes, towels, things like that.”

“Anything that wasn’t brand new, from a store?” Dean asked. “Like, antiques?”

Amy thought for a moment. “No, I can’t think of anything like that.” She gestured around the room at the simple, contemporary decorations. “We like a more modern style.” Then she paused. “Brandon’s dad did give him an old watch that had belonged to his great-grandfather. A family heirloom, I guess.”

“Is it in the house?” Ruthie asked.

Amy nodded. “In the bedroom. On the side table.”

Right where his body was found. Sam and Ruthie exchanged a weighted glance.

“Has his family always lived around here? In southern Idaho?” Ruthie asked.

“I think so,” Amy said.

“We’ll need to take a look at that watch,” Sam said.

Amy frowned. “But surely a watch couldn't do anything like that?”

“We have to check everything, however unlikely. Did you happen to notice any strange smells in the bedroom?”

“Smells? No, I don’t remember any.”

“What about his behavior?” Dean asked. “Anything out of the ordinary?”

She nodded. “He started taking extra shifts at work. He said he wanted to save up to get me a better car.”

They waited for her to say more. As the seconds ticked by, her gaze faltered and dropped to the tissue in her hands. She twisted it up tight and pressed her lips together. Finally, she took a little breath and blurted, “I thought he was cheating on me.”

Ruthie shot them a wide-eyed glance. That was clearly the last thing she’d expected Amy to say.

Speaking the words out loud seemed to have stunned Amy. She crumpled the tissue in her fist, a dazed expression on her face. “I haven’t told anyone.”

“Okay,” Ruthie began in a soothing tone. “Tell us why you thought that, Amy.”

“It wasn’t just that he was working more.” She turned to Ruthie. “You know how he was always bringing me flowers, sending chocolates, writing poems, all that stuff?”

Ruthie nodded.

“He kept doing all that, only more. It was something every day, sometimes more than once a day. Like he was manic. He seemed desperate for me to be happy with him.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “And that made you think he was cheating?”

“He acted guilty. I could see it in his eyes.”

“And did that make you angry?”

Sam shifted in his seat and gave Dean a side glare. This poor woman was obviously traumatized by her husband’s death, and now he was insinuating she’d killed him.

Amy’s soft brown eyes blazed. “Of course it made me angry.” Her lips trembled. “But mostly I was confused. I couldn’t understand who he’d be seeing, or why. We were so happy together.” Her voice cracked, and she grabbed a fresh tissue.

Sitting there hunched over, with Ruthie’s arm around her, Amy looked so small and vulnerable. Her muffled weeping tore at Sam’s heart. He wanted to make it better, to comfort her somehow. But what could he do? Nothing, except to find out what had killed her husband. Although, even if he did, he’d never be able to tell her the truth. She’d never know what happened. No matter how this case ended, he’d disappoint her. She would believe they'd failed her.

Sam lurched up off the couch. “Amy, is it okay if I go take a look at that watch?”

She nodded, head bowed. Permission received, Sam strode down the hallway, relieved to put some distance between himself and her grief.

He found the master bedroom easily enough. A few rumpled clothes lay across a big armchair in the corner, but otherwise it was tidy. The mattress lay bare on the bed frame; she must have stripped off the sheets after they took Brandon’s body away. He couldn’t blame her for not remaking it. He would have burned it.

He spotted a tarnished gold watch on the little table on the other side of the bed. He headed for it, but a voice startled him.

“Why’d you bolt?” Dean was eyeing him suspiciously.

“I didn’t bolt,” Sam lied. “Do you have an evidence bag?”

Dean watched him for another second, then pulled a plastic bag from his jacket pocket. He flipped it inside out on his way around the bed. With his hand inside the plastic, he picked up the watch and turned the bag right side out. He held it up to the light. “What do you call this? A pocket watch?”

A long gold chain hung from a metal circle at its top, and Roman numerals marked each hour on its face.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Looks innocent enough.”

Dean glanced around the room. “No sulfur, and she said she didn’t notice any smells. Looks like our Hell escapee is out, assuming it’s a demon.” He waved the bag with the watch. “So, how do we test this thing without getting turned into astronaut food?”

Sam winced and shot a glance into the hallway. “She might hear you, Dean.” Then he looked back at the old watch. “Research, I guess.”

They headed back into the living room. Amy had dried her cheeks, and was leaning close to Ruthie, speaking in an urgent tone. She glanced up as they entered the room, and smiled warmly at Sam.

Ruthie stood abruptly, looking relieved to see them. “Thank you, Amy. We’re sorry for intruding like this.”

Amy stood as well. “Not at all. I’m so thankful to you for being here.” But she directed her gaze to Sam as she spoke.

Sam and Dean followed Ruthie to the door, but Amy stopped them before she opened it. “Oh, wait! The funeral is tomorrow night. Will you come? All of you? I know he’d want you there, Ruthie.” She looked at Sam. “I know you’re here to solve his death. But it would mean a lot to me if you got to hear about his life, too.”

“Of course,” Sam said.

Ruthie flashed him an incredulous look, and Dean stepped hard on his foot.

“Thank you so much,” Amy said. “I know some people think it’s strange to have a funeral without a body, but Brandon wanted to be cremated anyway, and I couldn’t bear to keep dragging this out.”

“We’re honored to be invited. We’ll be there.” Sam ignored Dean and Ruthie’s dirty looks. They said their goodbyes and walked out into the sunshine.

“What is it with you and widows?” Dean growled as they piled into the Impala.

Sam stiffened. He never talked about Amelia, but once in awhile Dean would still needle him over the whole Purgatory thing.

Dean wasn’t finished. “And did you stop to think maybe Ruthie wouldn’t want to show up at the funeral?”

Oh. He hadn’t thought of that. He twisted around in his seat, and noted her crossed arms and pensive expression. “I’m sorry, Ruthie. I wasn’t thinking. You don’t have to go. We’ll say you got sick or something.”

“Thanks. I may take you up on it. We’ll see.” She stared out the window.

Dean glanced at her as he backed out of the driveway. “What was she saying to you when we came back in?”

“She said Mike and Monica aren’t together anymore. Didn't last two weeks.” A small, sardonic smile crossed her lips. “I could have warned him. That’s how she is.”

Dean swung onto the road. “Serves him right. Asshat.” He gunned the engine.

Ruthie’s smile turned genuine, and Sam couldn’t help but smile, too.


	9. Chapter 9

Ruthie smoothed the skirt of her black dress on her way through the parking lot toward the funeral home. She’d decided she had to go for Brandon, that only a coward would call in sick to a friend’s funeral. But she’d begun to regret her decision. A lot of people from the hospital were bound to be there, all in one place. Her heart thumped faster with each step. As she followed Sam and Dean up the front stairs, she blurted, “Don’t leave me alone with these people.”

Dean paused, then offered her his arm. She slipped her hand through it gratefully, and allowed him to escort her inside. 

By design, they’d arrived right as the funeral was scheduled to begin. They slipped into three empty seats in the back. A middle-aged man in a black suit stepped up to the microphone beside an enlarged portrait of Brandon, and introduced himself as Brandon and Amy’s pastor. His voice cracked as he recalled officiating their wedding just weeks earlier. He read scripture through tears, and described Brandon in heaven, well and whole and happy again. 

Ruthie suppressed a sniffle and swiped at her cheek, cursing herself for forgetting to bring kleenex. A flash of white above her lap caught her eye. She glanced down to see Dean’s hand holding out a folded tissue. He must have pulled it from his pocket. His simple gesture brought fresh, hot tears welling to the surface. Glancing at him, she took the tissue, but he kept his eyes up front, on the minister. As if he had offered it to her through a little gap in his fence.

Several others spoke, including Amy. She held it together throughout her eulogy, even laughing once when she told how Brandon had been so nervous on their first date he’d spilled his drink all over her. Ruthie remembered that Brandon had come to work the next day devastated, sure he’d never get a second date. Maybe she’d tell the guys that story after the funeral. Beside her, Dean’s watchful gaze roamed the room, never settling, always hunting. But Sam looked entirely engrossed in Amy’s story.

After having them all stand to sing Amazing Grace, the pastor spoke once more. “The Reeves and Amy thank you all for being here to honor their son and husband. They’d like to invite you to stay for a time of fellowship and reminiscing about Brandon.” He gestured toward the back. “The church has provided refreshments, which are just in the next room. Please remember to sign the guest registry as well. God bless you.”

Ruthie grabbed her purse, leaned over to Dean and murmured, “Let’s go.”

He nodded, but then frowned. She followed his gaze. Sam was already out of their row, making his way toward the front of the room. “What is he doing?” she hissed.

Dean’s lips compressed, and he shook his head. “Widows.”

All over the room, black-clothed people were standing, milling around, drifting in their direction. Sitting in the back had backfired now that she and Dean stood between the crowd and the room the minister had directed them to. Ruthie tensed, and lowered her face.

"C'mon," Dean said, and offered his arm again.

She tucked herself in close to his side as they made their way to the back corner nearest the exit, hoping no one would notice her. Dean parked them beside a potted plant. Ruthie scanned the front of the room, easily spotting Sam, who towered over Amy and an older couple who must have been Brandon's parents. She clenched her teeth, willing him to hurry up.

Instead, he turned, searched the room until he spotted them, and beckoned for them to come join him.

"I'm going to kill him," she growled to Dean. 

"Hey, if you want, we'll walk out right now. I'll take you out to the car, then come back in here and kick his ass. And anybody else’s you want."

He looked down at her with sincerity written all over his face. And maybe a little eagerness. His protectiveness was touching, but it also embarrassed her. Hadn't she decided her running and hiding days were done? What did she care what any of these people thought anymore? She had a new life now, with Sam and Dean. They were the ones who mattered. 

She straightened and threw her shoulders back. "You know what? Screw 'em. Let's go see what Sam wants."

Dean watched her for a moment, and something like pride flashed across his face. "Okay, then."

They weaved their way through the crowd, going against the general flow of traffic. Every few seconds, Ruthie spotted a familiar face. Sometimes they noticed her, too. Some brightened and waved hello, while others gaped before looking away, pretending they hadn't seen. Murmurs radiated out from her through the room like ripples from a stone tossed into a pond. A few threw dirty looks her direction. Apparently, membership in Team Monica didn't expire.

Let them whisper. Ruthie found, to her surprise, that she was able to hold her head high despite them all—though she wasn't quite able to let go of Dean's arm. 

Or maybe, having Dean to hold onto was what gave her the strength in the first place. 

They squeezed past a final huddle of people and reached Sam and Amy. Amy saw Ruthie, and motioned her closer before pulling her into a big hug. "Thank you for coming." She smiled up at Sam. "I was just telling Dr. Ulrich how much it means for you all to be here."

"You gave a beautiful eulogy," Ruthie told her. "You seem like you're holding up really well."

"Thank you. I'm sure it won't last, but for now I feel like I just can't cry anymore. Like I'm all dried up."

Ruthie cringed at her word choice, but Amy didn't seem to notice. The petite woman turned her soft brown eyes back up to Sam. "Have you found anything yet?"

"Yes, actually, we found a similar case from twenty-five years ago."

Dean cleared his throat and gave Sam a side glare. 

"Really?" Amy didn't seem to notice Dean, either. "So what could it be? Do you have any ideas?"

Sam opened his mouth, but Dean cut him off. "We're actually not allowed to comment on ongoing investigations. Sorry."

Sam glowered at his brother, but didn't argue.

Amy's face fell. "Oh." She turned back to Sam with a look of supplication. "Not even to me?"

He pressed his lips together. "I'm sorry."

"Well," Amy said, pasting a smile back on her face, "at least stay and have some food. The church brought enough to feed an army."

Ruthie cut Sam off this time. "We actually have a lot of work to do. Leads to follow up. Thank you, though."

"Of course. I understand. Thank you again."

She hugged Ruthie once more, then gave Dean a lukewarm handshake. She turned to Sam, and after an awkward false start at a hug, shook his hand, too. Sam's gaze lingered on her as she turned to greet a middle-aged couple waiting nearby.

"Dude." Dean tugged at Sam's elbow as he headed back toward the exit. "Timing."

"What?" Sam looked nonplussed. 

"We're at her husband's funeral."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you cooling it with the heart eyes, Casanova."

Sam reddened and spluttered before blurting, "You're being ridiculous." He appealed to Ruthie. "Tell him he's being ridiculous."

She felt guilty, turning on Sam when he'd taken her side so many times, but she couldn't lie. "He's kinda not."

Dean gave Sam an insufferably smug look, then beamed down at her. After being at odds with him so often, and after the distance between them since Reeds Spring, that goofy, gratified smile was like a gift.

They made their way through milling groups of people, some speaking in low, solemn tones, others giving watery-eyed hugs. Ruthie smiled back at those who smiled at her, and smiled even wider at the ones who stared and whispered. She considered taking Dean's arm again, now that he wasn't obviously escorting her to a destination—that would give them something to talk about. But they had a cover to keep intact. 

"Doctor? Doctor Ulrich!"

They paused, and saw Phyllis waving Sam over to her group of silver-haired ladies. 

"Who's that?" Dean asked.

"Sam's crush," Ruthie answered.

"Oh. Is she a widow, too?"

Sam threw them a dirty look before walking over to Phyllis.

"Well, do you want any food?" Dean asked.

She shook her head. She'd tested the limits of her bravery for the night. The poorly hidden glances and buzz of whispers were wearing on her nerves. "I'm ready to get out of here. I feel like everyone is staring at me." 

Dean's eyes slid down her for half a second before popping back up to the crowd. "Might be more than one reason for that."

Her cheeks heated; she looked down and inspected her dress. No stains, nothing was stuck to her. No toilet paper trailing from her shoes. The dress was simple and flattering, but modest, completely appropriate for the occasion. “Why do you say that?" 

He gave her a blank look. “Why do I say what?" 

"Dean, come on. Did I not get my dress zipped all the way up?” She craned her neck and patted at the back of her neck, trying to reach. 

His forehead wrinkled. “What? No, your dress is fine.”

"Then why are people staring? What’s wrong?”

He gazed at her, and his face softened. "Nothing's wrong. Nothing. Just. . .look at you." He waved a hand at her. "You look—"

"Ruthie?"

Her stomach lurched. Dean glanced at the speaker, then back at her. She kept her eyes on Dean’s another second, then two, delaying the inevitable. His brow creased again in a look she recognized; he knew something was wrong, and was trying to read her. 

"Ruthie?" the voice repeated. Closer this time.

She took a breath and closed her eyes. Turned toward the voice, and opened them again. A dark-haired, square-jawed man stood before her, a tentative expression on his face. 

She squared her shoulders. "Hello, Mike."


	10. Chapter 10

So, this was the douchebag who'd broken Ruthie's heart. 

She never mentioned he looked like Dr. Sexy, M.D. Thick, dark hair, grown long like Sam's, tastefully scruffy whiskers, strong jaw, broad shoulders. Dude looked like the cover of a damn romance novel. And Dean thought he'd hated the guy before now.

Mike kept eye contact with Ruthie, but it seemed like a struggle. His head hung like a dog's who'd gotten caught digging in the trash. He twisted a watch around his wrist; his mouth opened and closed a couple times. Ruthie stood there watching him, letting him squirm. Attagirl. She'd composed her face into a serene mask, but her hands were balled into tight little fists at her sides. 

"I saw you," Mike blurted. "I had to see if it was really you." He rubbed his arm. "They said you'd been at the hospital."

She raised an eyebrow and waited. 

His neck flushed red. "I heard you're with the CDC now? That's great. That's really..." he stammered. 

Standing there, watching Ruthie face her worst memory, her biggest betrayal, sent pride coursing like adrenaline through Dean’s veins. He knew she'd been dreading this moment, but now that it was here she didn't run or shrink or cry. She stood straight, staring him down like a boss. 

Mike stared at her shoes, rubbing his arm again, before taking a half step toward her. He gave her a pleading look and lowered his already deep voice. "Could we talk? Somewhere else, I mean?"

Oh, hell no. 

Dean stepped forward and put his arm around Ruthie, placing his hand on her lower back in a possessive pose. Cover be damned. "Hi there." He forced a casual tone and stuck out his right hand. "I don't think we've met. Dean Hetfield."

Mike's eyes jumped back and forth between them, and he shuffled backward a step. "Oh. Hi." He took Dean's hand and gave it a brief shake, letting go before Dean could crush his knuckles.

Ruthie glanced up at Dean with a question in her eyes, but didn't pull away or remove his hand from the small of her back. "Agent Hetfield, this is Dr. Mike Boothe." 

"Ah. You must be the FBI guy I heard about." Mike kept sneaking glances at Dean's arm around Ruthie. 

Dean pulled her in a little closer. She didn't tense or lean away. In fact, she seemed to relax, to fit perfectly at his side. 

Mike turned his attention back to Ruthie. "So, uh, will you be in town long?"

"Depends on the case."

He gave a jerky little nod. "Well. Um, I guess I'll head over there..." He gestured vaguely toward the room with the food. 

"Agent Hetfield?"

Mike paused;Ruthie stiffened. Dean turned toward the bubbly voice. Monica wore a form-fitting black dress, not exactly inappropriate, but definitely not as modest as Ruthie's. She carried herself like a woman who knew the effect she had on men, and enjoyed it. Her eyes traced Dean's arm to where it disappeared behind Ruthie's back.

"Hi, Mike, Ruthie." She acknowledged them with a brief nod, then focused on Dean. "You said to call if I thought of anything else. I was going to call you later tonight, but I saw you over here and thought we might as well talk in person."

Dean didn't have to look at Ruthie. Her rigid body quivered beneath his arm, displeasure pulsing from her like Morse code. He knew what Dean Winchester would do right now: he’d tell both these clowns where they could go, then take Ruthie out for beers to unwind, maybe pick up ingredients for pie and make one together. She liked to bake when she was stressed. But she'd warned him not to let on he knew anything. He needed to be Agent Hetfield—even if Agent Hetfield appeared to be getting cozy with Ms. Trujillo. 

"Miss Nelson, right? Okay. What is it?"

Monica shot a furtive look at Mike and Ruthie, then stepped closer to him. "I was hoping this could be anonymous."

Ruthie blew out a short breath through her nose. Her dark eyes blazed, but she remained professional. “Go ahead, Agent Hetfield. I’ll wait for Dr. Ulrich.” 

He searched her face to see if she really meant it, or if she wanted him to contradict her. She returned his gaze, and gave him a tiny nod before leaning away from him, gently dislodging his arm. Dean hesitated, especially when Dr. Sexy edged closer to Ruthie, clearly hoping to take advantage of Dean’s absence. “Okay,” Dean said. “I’ll meet you at the car in five.”

Ruthie nodded. Monica gave him a coy smile and led him toward the exit. He followed, keeping his eyes on the back of her blonde head rather than her swaying hips. She pushed through the door, and he followed her out into the warm night air. But she didn’t stop on the front entryway. Her heels clicked down the cement steps and along the sidewalk in front of the funeral home. He followed her around the corner to the side of the building, where she led him into a small garden. A little pathway wound through perfectly trimmed bushes and colorful flowerbeds. Decorative stones engraved with comforting quotes were scattered along the path. Evergreen trees lined the perimeter, giving the area a private atmosphere despite the noise of traffic beyond the parking lot. She made her way to a wooden bench in the corner and sat down, motioning for him to join her. 

Dean glanced around. Nobody else in sight. Normally, he’d be all over the chance to interview a girl like that in a place like this. But he knew who she was. What she’d done to Ruthie. He wanted to get this over with. He stopped several steps from her and crossed his arms. “What did you want to tell me?”

She patted the space beside her. “Please sit down. I’m so nervous someone will overhear.”

He stayed put. “No one’s going to hear you.” 

Her thin lips pushed out in a pout. “They could. Please?” When he didn’t move, she crossed her arms. “I’m not talking until I’m sure no one else can hear.” 

Dean wasn't an idiot. He knew what she was doing. Fine. He'd play her game. She was going to be disappointed. He squeezed in beside her, the little bench barely wide enough for them both to fit. Her left leg pressed against his right, no matter how much he tried to scrunch away. This better be a killer tip. “You thought of something else?”

She raised one eyebrow and gave him a mischievous grin. “So, you and Ruthie?”

“Excuse me?”

She gave his knee a playful shove. “You don’t have to play dumb with me. I saw you in there. I saw how you were looking at her.” Her wide lips sank into a pout. “Bummer for me, after you said I could call you anytime.”

First Sam, now Monica. Apparently he'd gone overboard in there. But that was Dr. Sexy's fault. “Ms. Trujillo is a colleague.”

Her laugh tinkled like a little bell. “None of my ‘colleagues’ look at me that way.” Then her expression turned solemn. “I saw how you looked at Mike, too. She told you, didn’t she?”

Dean shifted on the hard bench. This conversation was not going as advertised. “Told me what?”

She smirked. “Anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar?” She sighed and looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap. “I can only imagine what she’s said about me. What you must think of me.”

“Look, Miss Nelson—”

“Please. Call me Monica.”

“Miss Nelson, I’m here to find out what happened to Brandon Reeves. That’s it. Now, do you have something useful to tell me? Or can I get back to my team?”

She fixed him with moonlit green eyes. “I think I do have something useful to tell you. About Ruthie. Something you should know—as her colleague, or whatever you are.”

Dean stood to leave, but she grabbed his hand.

“Please. Hear me out. Then you can leave and never speak to me again.”

He flopped back down and waited, arms crossed. Sounded like a good deal to him.

She looked down at her lap again. “I don’t know what she’s told you. But Ruthie and I were best friends. I would have done anything for her. When she started dating Mike, I knew he was wrong for her. He didn’t love her like she loved him. I had a lot more…experience than she did. I’ve got a radar for cheaters. I knew he’d break her heart sooner or later.”

Dean sat back, glaring at Monica, daring her to make herself out to be anything other than a man-stealing skank. 

Monica wiped her palms on her legs and went on. “When he proposed, I wished I’d spoken up earlier. I begged her to break off the engagement. Told her he wasn’t all he seemed, that she’d regret it forever. But Ruthie’s stubborn. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Well, she wasn’t wrong about that. 

Monica paused, her eyelids fluttering, lips trembling. “I was desperate to save her from marrying him. I had to prove he was a cheater. So I did.”

Dean blinked at her. “So let me get this straight. You betrayed your best friend, slept with her fiancé, because you were trying to help her?”

She turned to face him. “Yes! I know it sounds crazy, but—”

“And then you moved in with him because, what, being a backstabbing tramp just once wasn’t enough to prove your point?”

Shimmering tears quivered in her eyes. Her voice shook. “When I saw her face that night, I knew she’d never forgive me. That I’d lost my best friend. I felt so guilty and so alone. I’d ruined my reputation, my life…” She buried her face in her hands and cried. 

Dean watched her. He had more kleenex in his pocket, but he didn’t offer her one. Although he had to admit, if she was faking it, she’d missed her calling. This was an Oscar-worthy performance. 

She sniffled between big breaths, trying to compose herself. She swiped at her eyes, then turned to him again. “But in the end, for Ruthie’s sake, I don’t regret it. She didn’t marry Mike. She’s with the CDC now. And she met you.” She straightened up. “Everything I went through, it doesn’t matter, as long as Ruthie’s happy now.”

Dean stared at her. “Yeah. You’re a real martyr.” He clapped his knees with his palms. “Good chat. I’m gonna go get started on us never talking again.” 

He stood up, but before he could take a step, she was standing in his way. The traces of a scowl gave way to a pleading expression. "I don't want you to think I'm a monster." Her eyes filled again. "Just remember, Dean: Ruthie runs. When things get too hard or uncomfortable, she runs."

Dean's jaw clenched. "You don't know her. And you're in my way."

Her upper lip curled; her eyes glinted—or had he imagined it? Just as quickly, her expression softened and stretched into a sugary smile. “One more thing,” she said. “It’s a secret.” Her face shone in the moonlight as she leaned up toward him, standing on tiptoe. She stretched closer, pressing against him, until her mouth was beside his ear, warming his skin with her breath. Dean stiffened and rocked back on his heels. Only the need for information kept him standing there. This better be a case-solving tip. A little pinch, just behind his ear. Had she _nibbled_ him? He ought to move, ought to push her away, but his body wouldn’t cooperate with his brain. Hell, even his brain wasn't working properly. It seemed to have shut down. She held still, breathing on his neck, her chest rising and falling against his. She sighed, low and slow, her lips brushing along his jaw as she slid away.

He stared at her; she stared back. Her sweet, spicy perfume clouded his mind. He fumbled for words. “You…you were going to tell me a secret.”

“Was I?” A phantom smile passed over her lips. “I guess I forgot.”

Someone nearby cleared their throat. “Agent?”

Sam stood at the entrance of the little garden, narrowed eyes flicking from Dean to Monica. “Are you finished?”

A cold rock dropped into Dean’s stomach. How long had Sam been standing there? “Thank you, Miss Nelson,” Dean said loudly, before stepping around her and walking toward his brother. He kept going, past Sam, whose suspicious frown he’d rather avoid. 

Sam soon caught up. “What was that?”

Dean still didn’t know. But he figured it hadn’t looked good. He was glad Ruthie hadn’t seen. He hadn’t been alone with a woman besides Ruthie in forever, and Monica had caught him off guard with her nibbling and heavy breathing and pressing up against him. “She said she wanted to tell me something. About the case.”

“It looked like she was whispering in your ear.”

“Yeah. Worried about eavesdroppers.” He shot a look at Sam. “Guess she has a point.”

Sam’s frown deepened. “Dean, I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was looking for you. Anyway, what did she say?”

Dean scrambled for an answer. “Nothing helpful. She just wants attention.” He took the opportunity to bring up the theory he’d been working on, hoping it would distract Sam from what he’d just seen in the garden. “But she’s still given us the best lead we’ve got. Amy.”

Sam stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You heard her, Sam. Amy thinks Mr. Romance was cheating on her. No proof. She’s just sure he was. She could ‘see it in his eyes.’” He put mocking air quotes around her words.

Sam’s face hardened. “So you’re saying you trust Monica more than Amy.”

“Trust her? Hell no. I’m saying one of them doesn’t have a reason to lie, and the other one suspected her new husband of cheating right before she ‘found’ him mummified in their bed.”

“She fainted when she found him, Dean. Remember that?”

“According to who? Ever wonder about that? She says she fainted, and thencalled for help when she came to. Nobody saw her faint. Can’t prove it.”

"Are you being serious right now? You think Amy killed him?"

"I'm not ruling anything out. And yeah, if we're going by circumstantial evidence, she's looking like our best suspect. Why keep her maiden name if they're so in love, huh?" 

Sam threw his arms out to the sides. "Lots of women keep their maiden names!"

Dean ignored him. "And are you telling me it's not even a little suspicious that she didn't cry at her husband's funeral?"

Sam leaned back a, bitter smile twisting his face. “You’ve made up your mind already, haven’t you?”

“No, Sam. I’m following the facts, trying to solve this case. You’re the one not keeping an open mind here.”

“Guys?” Ruthie stood on the sidewalk a couple yards away, dark eyebrows raised. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. We’re good.” Dean pulled out his keys and headed into the parking lot, toward the Impala. They climbed in, and he fired up the engine. As he pulled away, Monica emerged from the corner of the building, strolling along the sidewalk, heading back inside. Without turning her head, she shot a sideways glance at him, emerald eyes sparking in the headlights. A subtle wink, then she turned her back to climb the steps, hips weaving a tight series of figure eights all the way up. 

“Dean!” Sam yelled.

He stomped on the brakes, nearly t-boning a Suburban on its way out of the parking lot. The three of them sat in pulse-pounding silence. 

“Sorry,” Dean said finally. “I...got distracted.”

Sam ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in his seat.

Dean pulled onto the street and glanced at the rearview. Ruthie sat stone-faced in the back seat, watching him. Looking into him, like only she could. 

He tore his eyes away, locked them onto the road. Rubbed behind his ear, where echoes of warm breaths and soft lips lingered. He didn’t want Ruthie seeing through him right now. 


	11. Chapter 11

Ruthie watched Dean follow Monica outside. Barbed wires twisted themselves around her stomach and cinched tight. She hated the idea of Monica being alone with him.

Mike's low voice pulled her attention back. "So, do you think we could talk now?"

She looked up into the face of the man she used to love. "What is there to talk about?"

He winced. "Please."

Ruthie sighed. Nothing he could say would change a thing. Might as well let him talk. But not here. She jerked her head toward the door and led him outside, ignoring the blatant stares of several nurses nearby. She turned left at the bottom of the stairs and walked several yards along the sidewalk, stopping by a large lilac bush. She turned to him, folding her arms.

Mike looked around the parking lot, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know where to start. . ."

Ruthie just waited.

"You didn't tell me when your dad died," he blurted.

Heat flooded her cheeks. "Is that why you wanted to talk? To accuse me of not treating _you_ fairly?"

He held up his hands. "No. No, I'm sorry." He lowered his face and wiped a hand across his forehead. "I've planned it out so many times, what I'd say if I ever saw you again. And now you're here, and I. . ." He trailed off, venturing a glance at her. He kept his dark eyes fixed on hers long enough to say, "Ruthie, I'm sorry." His voice faltered. He shook his head, addressing his next words to her feet. "I'm so sorry. I don't know how. . . I never meant. . ." He crossed his arms, and stared into the concrete as if trying to decipher an inscrutable code engraved there. A soft breeze rustled the lilac leaves and Ruthie's hair. He swallowed, then went on. "I think about it now, and I can't understand it. Why I did it. I never loved her." He raised repentant eyes to her face. "Only you."

Ruthie searched his eyes, their charcoal depths still so familiar after all this time. She saw only honesty there—honesty bathed in regret. Mike had always stood tall, carried himself with the confidence and purpose of a successful surgeon, comfortable in his own skin. Now, his head bowed, his shoulders stooped. He wore his guilt like a pack full of heavy stones.

Mike ran a hand through his hair. "I went to the cabin. More than once. Could never bring myself to knock on the door. I was too ashamed to face you. Then I heard about your dad. A month later." His features drooped with remorse. "That was the push I needed, I guess. Knowing you'd had to face that alone. I hated myself even more than before. I drove straight there, knocked on the door. Your truck was there, but you were gone. The back door was all boarded up; it looked like it had been broken down. I was panicked, trying to figure out what had happened to you. I must have called you twenty times."

Ruthie had ignored all those calls. Deleted the voicemails, unheard.

"I went to the police station there in Washington Mill to file a missing person's report. They told me you weren't missing, that you had left town with two men."

Ruthie swallowed. Was he about to blow their cover? "Friends I made," she said. "We road-tripped to Atlanta for my interview."

Mike nodded. "And now you're with the CDC." He paused, tilting his lowered head to one side. "And that FBI agent?"

"Yes." 

The word escaped before she could catch it. It wasn't true; it wasn't even part of their cover. And yet, the memory of Dean's solid presence still warmed her side; the weight of his hand imprinted the small of her back. Tonight, the gap in his fence had widened; she could feel it. Her heart had answered the question before her mind had time to argue.

It didn't matter. Mike didn't need to know. Maybe her lie would keep him from trying to win her back. 

Mike nodded again with a sad smile. "I thought so. I'm happy for you, Ruthie. You deserve to be happy. You deserve. . .everything good." His jaw worked for a moment, then he took a step closer and forced out the words. "I won't ask you to forgive me. I'll never forgive myself. Just, please, if you're ever in trouble, or need anything at all, please call me. I still—" He broke off; his voice fell to a murmur. "I'll do anything for you."

Ruthie stayed silent, not because she wanted to make him uncomfortable, but because she couldn't think what to say. She hadn't cried for Mike since she'd started her new life with Sam and Dean. She'd moved on. And here he was, treading water in a sea of guilt. Barely keeping his head above the surface, apparently. 

He'd traded his future with her for a fling with a woman he didn't love, for reasons even he couldn't understand. A woman who'd tossed him aside almost immediately, just as she'd done with the others. It was all such a _waste_.

An unexpected wave of pity washed over her. She wasn't going to give him any false hope, but she could at least be kind. And maybe find some closure. “I am happy now, Mike. And I don't hate you.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, summoning the strength for her next words. "I forgive you."

His eyes widened. He made a small sound in his throat, and dropped his face into his hand.

Ruthie shifted her feet, resisting her instinct to put a comforting hand on his arm. Behind Mike, a tall figure came out of the funeral home—Sam. He glanced around the parking lot, then trotted down the stairs and disappeared around the corner of the building. Looking for Dean, she figured. 

Where had Dean and Monica gone, anyway? Her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch.

After several more moments, Mike wiped his hand down his face and straightened again. "Thank you. I don't deserve it."

Ruthie gave him a nod. “Listen, I need to get back to my team."

"Of course." He stepped aside, giving her the sidewalk. "I think I'm calling it a night." He paused, looking into her eyes once more. "It was good to see you, Ruthie."

He headed into the parking lot, one hand stuffed into his pocket, head bowed again. He looked pensive, lost inside his own head. But mostly, he looked alone. 

She gave her head a little shake and turned away. Halfway down the sidewalk, the guys emerged from the shadows around the corner ahead. They seemed to be arguing. Nothing new, but knowing Dean had just been talking to Monica. . .

"Guys? Everything okay?"

Dean gave her only a shifty glance. "Yeah. We're good." 

She followed him through the dim parking lot to the Impala, her insides coiling. As he drove slowly past a row of parked cars, Monica appeared on the sidewalk. Dean's attention lasered onto her. Monica smirked at him, then winked. He ogled her ass all the way up the stairs. Ruthie's stomach shrank into a rigid little ball; the back of her throat squeezed tight around a hard lump. 

Neither Dean nor Ruthie saw the Suburban. If Sam hadn't shouted, they'd have plowed right into it. 

Dean wore the wide, startled expression of a man who'd just been jolted from a dream. One charged beat of silence. Two. Then Dean spoke in a forced voice. “Sorry. I. . .got distracted.”

His words scorched the painful knot in her throat. She tried to swallow down the fire, but it only rose and burned behind her eyes. She blinked it back.

In the slim rearview, Dean met her eyes for half a heartbeat.

It was long enough.

He looked away, rubbing the side of his neck, but she had seen. He’d reinforced his barricade. Even now, he was stacking new bricks into fresh mortar. Shutting her out.

She wanted to ask him why, beg him to stop, demand to know what Monica had said. Or done. But she'd already seen his wall. He wouldn't open up to her. She'd be wasting her breath.

She sank back into her seat and stared out the window. The ghost of his hand on her back turned cold, and faded away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're at the halfway mark, my dears! Appropriate, since I must announce a very brief intermission. Next week, I'll be traveling to London (!) and thus won't be able to post the next chapter until Sunday, July 23. I do hope you'll bear with me and stick around; I can't wait to share the second half of this story with you!


	12. Chapter 12

Sam stayed quiet during the ride back to the motel. They all did. The tension between Dean and Ruthie could have snapped a steel chain. He rubbed his temples. Admittedly, he was no expert in romance. But he'd never seen two people so obviously meant for each other fight it so hard. He didn't know what had set them off this time, and he wasn't going to ask. 

Back at the motel, Dean crawled straight into the sofa bed.   


"You were on that thing last night," Ruthie said, her voice strangely cold and subdued. "It's my turn." 

Dean and Ruthie had agreed to alternate nights. Sam had offered to take a turn, but they ignored him. They all knew there was no direction he could lay without some part of him sticking over the edge of the mattress. 

"You keep the bed," Dean told her. "I'm fine." He rolled onto his side, turning his back to them.

Ruthie stared at the back of his head for a moment, then turned without a word and disappeared into the bathroom. Sam sighed and settled in at the little table with his laptop. They could turn in early if they wanted. He was going to search for leads. 

Four fruitless hours later, Sam collapsed onto his bed. After what felt like five minutes, Dean shook his shoulder. “Wake up, Sunshine. We got a case to work."

Sam squinted and groaned. "Let me sleep."

The bathroom door opened and Ruthie emerged, wet hair lying on a towel draped across her shoulders.

"Hey, Ruthie," Dean said, sounding especially chipper. "I made breakfast. Your favorite." He gestured at the little round table. Sam's laptop had been replaced by plates piled with scrambled eggs, bacon, and French toast. Sam inhaled, and his stomach rumbled.

Ruthie paused, glancing first at Dean, then Sam, eyebrows raised. "Okay. Um, thanks."

While she rubbed her hair with the towel, Sam rubbed his eyes. Then he hauled himself out of bed and plopped into a chair. "What got into you?" he asked Dean.

"What? A guy can't make breakfast once in awhile?"

Sam shrugged and bit into a piece of bacon. "Do we have anything to drink?"

"Just coffee. And water." Dean went to the kitchenette and came back with two mugs of coffee, one for Sam and one for Ruthie. Dean already had a coffee mug and a glass of water sitting by his plate. 

Ruthie joined them at the table. She shot a suspicious glance at Dean, but her brows pulled together when she looked at Sam. "Are you okay? You don't look well."

Sam rubbed his forehead. "I'm fine." He didn't want her wasting time worrying about him when they were nowhere on this case.

"So, what've we got so far?" Dean asked, passing the plate of French toast to Ruthie. "Two vics, twenty-five years apart. Both found in their beds."

"Both with puncture wounds in their mouths," Sam said.

"One just married, one about to be engaged," Ruthie added.

Dean nodded and pushed the plate of eggs toward her. "Both complained about headaches and turned into camels before they died."

"And both changed their schedules, working late," Sam said.

Ruthie stared at her plate for a moment, tapping her fork with her forefinger. "They both felt guilty."

Dean helped himself to the bacon. "Okay. So maybe they…took something? A cursed object? And it started giving them symptoms, driving them nuts."

"Maybe," Sam said. 

"Still no leads on any monsters?" Ruthie asked.

Sam shook his head. "Not really. I thought maybe a succubus, since they seduce men in their sleep, and some traditions say that repeated visits from one can cause your health to deteriorate. That would explain them being found in their beds, and maybe the late hours and tiredness, if they were avoiding sleep. Could even explain the guilt. But I can't find anything in the lore about succubi sucking their victims dry like this."

"And we've got no sulfur," Dean added. "What about the pocket watch?"

Sam shook his head again. "I don't think it's cursed. I don't get a cursed object vibe from it, you know?"

"You sure?" Ruthie asked. "You look terrible."

"Thanks. Glad you two got a good night's sleep while I worked." Sam swiped his hair back, grabbed Dean's glass of water, and gulped it down.

"So now what?" Ruthie asked. 

"We keep digging," Dean answered around a mouthful of eggs.

"I think I want to go back to Amy's," Sam said.

Dean stopped chewing and stared at him, one eyebrow popped.

Sam raised his voice. "The house is ground zero, right? We need to look for more clues, cursed objects, something."

Dean kept staring. "And?"

"And nothing, Dean." Sam sawed off a big bite of French toast.

Dean resumed chewing. "Let's just hope this job doesn't zap me to Purgatory." He tipped his head toward Ruthie. "It'll be up to you to get me out."

"Sam's right," Ruthie put in before Sam could retort. "Searching the house again is a good idea." She finished her last bite of bacon and pushed her plate away. "I was thinking I'd go back to the hospital. I want to ask Dr. Ziegler to run some tests on the tissue around the puncture wound. Maybe we'll find something: a chemical, maybe a toxin, even DNA."

Dean looked impressed. "I shoulda thought of that."

Ruthie's cheeks colored, but her forehead creased, as though she couldn't decide how to take the compliment. 

Dean went on. "I'll drive you. I wanna talk to HR, find out if anybody complained about Brandon recently. See if he had any enemies."

"Great," Sam said. "You can drop me off on your way."

 

* * *

 

Ruthie watched from the back seat while Sam climbed out in front of Amy's house. Dean called to him through his open window. "Watch your back."

Sam gave him an eyeroll and a salute, then went to the door.

Dean turned to Ruthie. "Don't you wanna come sit up front?"

"Oh. Sure." She got out, puzzling over his casual, familiar tone. Between this and breakfast, she was starting to wonder if she'd imagined everything last night in the parking lot. She slid into the passenger seat, grasping at this new hope. "Thanks for letting me have the bed last night. And for breakfast. You're sure being nice. What's your angle?"

"No angle." He shifted into reverse and gave her a wink. "I'm just a nice guy."

That little smile and wink still sent carbonated warm fuzzies bubbling up through her chest. It wasn't fair.

Dean drove along the tree-lined street, windows down, the summer breeze blowing through the car. "So, did I hear that right last night?" he asked. "Mike Boothe?"

Hearing Dean say his name was jarring, a head-on collision between her two lives. She tried not to let it show. "That's right. Why?"

He sneaked a sideways glance at her, eyebrows raised. "Your name was going to be _Ruthie Boothe?_ " 

She grinned in spite of herself. "Yeah. I wasn't too excited about that."

He shook his head. "Woulda been a damn tragedy."

"Like I said. Dodged a bullet." 

Dean's lips twitched up at that. He leaned back in his seat and draped his arm out the window. She pushed the blowing hair out of her face and did the same. Riding with him like this, both smiling and relaxed, felt like old times. Like before Reeds Spring. Before the barrier. She soaked it in and hoped it would last. 

At the hospital, she and Dean split up; he went to HR while she headed to Dr. Ziegler's office. As it turned out, the ME was one step ahead of her.

"We're on the same page, Nurse Trujillo. I ordered tests of that tissue later on the same day you were here."

Ruthie sat up straighter in her seat. "That's great, Dr. Ziegler. When do you expect the results?"

He lifted a file folder off his desk. "Today. I put a rush on them. I thought the CDC might appreciate it."

She fought the urge to snatch the folder right out of his hand. "The CDC appreciates it very much. May I?"

He nodded and handed it over. "Hopefully you'll be able to make sense of it. I certainly can't."

Ruthie quickly scanned several sheets of paper, soon locating what she was looking for. She stared for a second, then looked up at the pathologist. "Insect DNA?"

"That's what it says."

Ruthie blinked down at the paper. "So, you're saying the puncture wound was an insect bite?"

Dr. Ziegler nodded. "It would appear so. You'll see later in the report there was unidentified human DNA found as well. Unfortunately, just like the rest of the cells in the body, they were too damaged to provide much detailed information. All we learned is there was a mixture of insect and human DNA present. Both female."

This was huge, the biggest lead they'd found so far. She wasn't sure what to make of it, but hopefully Sam and Dean would know. She forced herself to calmly close the folder and take a measured breath. "Thank you so much, Dr. Ziegler. I'll pass this along to Dr. Ulrich." She stood to go.

"Nurse Trujillo? I trust the CDC will release their findings when the investigation is complete? Until then, I'll be showering in insect repellent."

She studied the report on her way down the hall, so focused on the file in her hand she nearly ran head-on into a woman in blue scrubs. "I'm sorry, I wasn't watching—”

Monica gave her a wide-lipped smile. "It's okay. I was looking for you. I saw Dean outside HR; he said you were over here."

So now it was Dean, not Agent Hetfield. Ruthie stepped back, holding the folder against her chest. Her body tensed; her jaw tightened. "What do you want?"

Monica held up her hands. "Relax. I just want to talk."

"I don't." 

Ruthie tried to step around her, but Monica blocked her path.

"It'll be quick. I wanted to tell you that my mom came back."

Ruthie paused. That was the last thing she'd expected to hear. Curiosity held her feet in place. 

Monica nodded. "I know. Crazy, right? She showed up out of the blue a few months ago, on my thirtieth birthday. She looked beautiful, just like I remembered her. Said she wanted to explain everything. Why she left, why she stayed away."

Ruthie's head swirled. A year ago, this would have been the beginning of a long night with Monica, talking and crying and going over every detail of her mother's sudden reappearance. Even now, Monica's tone and body language suggested this was a friendly conversation. But those days were behind them.

"And?" Ruthie asked in a curt tone.

"And, she had to go find herself. Figure things out. She couldn't do it with a five-year-old kid in tow. I understand now."

Ruthie studied her face. She appeared serene, casual. It was so _weird_. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because seeing her, talking with her, it helped me understand a lot about myself. About why I've done certain things. I didn't get it before she came—before you left. But now I do. I've come to peace with myself. I just thought you'd want to know."

Ruthie stared at her former best friend, waiting for the rest. But it didn't come. Monica was finished.

"Wow," Ruthie said, tipping her head back and nodding slowly. "That has to be the worst apology I've ever heard."

Monica's perfectly manicured eyebrows squished together. "Oh, no. I think you misunderstood. I'm not apologizing. I can't apologize for who I am. In fact, I keep waiting for you to thank me."

A red mist filtered over Ruthie's vision; intense pressure built in her chest and behind her eyes. " _Thank_ you?"

"Sure. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have met Dean, would you?" She gave Ruthie a conspiratorial grin and fanned herself. "Lucky girl. God, what I wouldn't give to have that man's babies."

Ruthie's skull was going to explode if the pressure built any more. "Goodbye, Monica." She pushed past her and hurried down the hall, putting space between them as fast as she could without running.

"I heard you and Mike talked in private the other night," Monica called after her. "How'd it go?"

Ruthie rounded the corner, hands shaking on the file folder. She spotted Dean up ahead, coming toward her. He took one look at her face and sped up, frowning. 

"What happened? You okay?"

Ruthie shook her head and kept going, beelining for the exit. 

He caught her just outside the big double doors, stopping her with a hand on her shoulder. "Hey. What happened?"

She pulled in a gasp of fresh air and ordered herself to calm down. She shook her head. "Monica. I'm okay now. I just…I shouldn't see her anymore."

Dean's frown deepened; he shot a glance back through the glass doors. "Want me to go kick her ass?"

"No." She didn't want Dean anywhere near her. 

"Okay, if you say so." He gazed through the door another moment, looking wistful, then turned back to her. "Well, nobody complained about Brandon to HR. Sounds like he didn't have any enemies, at least not here." He nodded at her chest. "Whatcha got?"

She remembered the folder in her hands. "Oh! Right. Dr. Ziegler already got the tissue tested." She handed it over to him. "What do you think?"

He scanned the first page. "This is all Greek to me."

She found the right page and slid it to the top, tapping the important line with her index finger. "Right here."

"Insect DNA?"

"Yep. There was some human, too. Both female."

They looked at each other for a moment. "It's a monster," she said. 

"Looks like. Which means Sam's wasting his time looking for a cursed object." Dean pulled out his phone, dialed Sam, and waited. After a few seconds, he grunted and hung up. "Not answering." Dean stared at the concrete for several moments, then looked back at Ruthie. "What was your take on her waterworks the other day? Is she legit?"

"You mean Amy? Yeah, I think so. I mean, her husband just died." Then Dean's implication hit her. "Wait. You don't think…?”

Dean tapped his phone against his leg, staring past her. "Since the first time we went to her house, wouldn't you say he's seemed drawn to her? Like, moth-to-a-flame drawn to her?"

"I guess so. I thought he maybe had a little crush. The widow thing, like you said." The idea Dean had planted was already taking root, though, sending uncomfortable twinges through her insides. "She was so weepy and vulnerable, and you know how Sam is; he has a soft heart. He really wants to help her."

"I didn't have eyes on him the whole time he was talking to her at the funeral. Did you?"

A chill scuttled over Ruthie's skin despite the warm sunshine. She shook her head.

Dean squinted; the lines in his forehead deepened. "Did he seem extra tired to you this morning?"

"Yeah, he did." Her stomach gave a sudden lurch. "I saw him rubbing his head, too."

"Did you see the way he downed that water?"

She nodded, now mute with fear. 

They sprinted for the Impala.


	13. Chapter 13

"Stay behind me," Dean ordered. He and Ruthie climbed the front porch steps, guns held down in front of them in hopes the neighbors wouldn't notice. He tried the handle—it was unlocked. He turned it slowly, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. 

He'd tried Sam twice more as they raced to the house, with no luck. Now he spotted Sam's unanswered phone on the coffee table. He strained his ears, listening for Sam's voice, something to reassure him his brother wasn't already a shriveled, dried-out mummy. He couldn't get the image out of his head. But he heard nothing.

He and Ruthie soundlessly crossed the front room, guns extended. Everything was still perfectly in place; no signs of a struggle. At least not in here. He moved farther into the house, toward the hallway leading to the master bedroom. Then he heard it: not Sam's voice, but a woman's. The murmur came from the bedroom. Too soft to make out the words. He glanced back at Ruthie, whose wide eyes told him she'd heard it, too. She'd turned pale outside the hospital while they ticked off Sam's symptoms. Her face was even whiter now. She was as scared as he was of losing Sam.

He crept down the hallway, hugging the wall. The bedroom door was open. He inched closer, Ruthie right behind him. The whites of her eyes shone in the dim light. The murmuring had stopped. He heard only a faint scrabbling noise. Closer, closer… 

Dean burst through the open doorway. His heart plummeted into his stomach. Sam lay facedown on the floor. His legs stuck out from under the bed; the rest of him was hidden underneath it. Amy stood there with her arms crossed, looking down at Sam.

Dean advanced on her, gun leveled. "Get back. Get away from him!"

She shrieked and stumbled backward, hands up, shielding her face. 

Ruthie rushed to Sam and knelt beside him, reaching under the bed to drag him out. "Sam!"

Sam's feet kicked. He wriggled out from under the bed, gaping at Ruthie, then glaring at his brother. "What the hell, Dean?"

Sam sure looked and sounded like himself, right down to the double wrinkles between his eyebrows—the ones he always got when he was exasperated with Dean. 

Dean glanced at Amy, who was cowering at the foot of the bed, her brown eyes huge in her china doll face. He looked back at Sam. "So, you uh, you're okay?"

Sam pushed himself to his feet. "I'm fine. What are you doing?" 

Prickly heat crept up the back of Dean's neck. He realized he was still pointing his gun at Amy. He lowered it. Ruthie did the same, looking sheepish. "You didn't answer your phone." He realized as he said it how lame he sounded. He raised his voice. "What were you doing on the floor?"

Sam waved his flashlight, and raised his voice to match Dean's. "Looking for hex bags."

"Wait, what?" Amy squeaked. "You said you were looking for toxins. What's a hex bag?" Her eyes jumped among the three of them; her hands still raised and trembling. "And why does Ruthie have a _gun?_ "

Ruthie's cheeks went pink. She holstered her 9mm and turned to Sam. "We're sorry. When you didn't answer your phone we got worried, thinking about how you've been acting the past few days. How tired you were this morning—"

"I stayed up late looking for leads!"

"You acted like you had a headache, too." 

"I got three hours of sleep," Sam growled.

"And you downed my water in one gulp," Dean added.

Sam threw his hands in the air. "I always drink water!" Then he glared and jabbed a finger at Dean. "Since when do _you_ drink water?"

"Guys." Ruthie stepped forward. "Let's not do this right now, okay? Sam, we're sorry. We made a mistake. We're just glad you're okay. Listen, the tissue test found insect DNA."

"And human. Female." Dean flashed a suspicious glance at Amy, whose eyes had somehow grown even bigger.

Sam's defensive stance softened. "So, it's not a cursed object."

"Nope," Dean said. "So how 'bout we get outta here and do some hunting?"

"Will someone _please_ tell me what is going on?" Amy, still leaning away from Dean and his .45, directed her plea to Sam and Ruthie.

He tucked the gun into his waistband on his way out of the room. "Sorry. Classified."

He waited in the car for about five minutes, and finally honked the horn. Sam and Ruthie came out and climbed in. 

"I told her we're a team that handles the most difficult cases," Ruthie said. "The ones that don't seem to have logical explanations. That our methods are…unorthodox.” She shook her head. "I don't know if she bought it."

"Well," Dean said, "then I guess we better solve this one fast. Anybody got any ideas?"

"Library, maybe?" Sam suggested. "We could look for newspaper articles about the old case, maybe turn up something new."

"Sounds good. Let's grab lunch, and I'll drop you two off."

"Where are you going?" Sam asked.

Dean kept his eyes on the road. "Hospital."

Several silent seconds passed. "Why?" Ruthie asked. "We were just there." Her voice sounded tight.

"If Amy's not our monster, we have to find out who Brandon was seeing. Who he let into the house. Right?"

"Makes sense," Sam said.

"I'll flash my badge, turn up the heat," Dean told them. "Somebody knows something." He made the mistake of glancing at Ruthie in the rearview. Instant déja vu. She sat there, x-raying him with her eyes. Instead of flinching away this time, he stared back, daring her to say something. "Is there a problem?" 

She stayed quiet so long he had to look back at the road. "You tell me, Dean," she finally said. "Is there a problem?"

Sam shifted in his seat. "Look, whatever's going on between you two—"

"Nothing's going on between us," Dean snapped. 

In the back seat, Ruthie winced.

Something lassoed Dean’s chest and cinched tight. He tried to ignore it. ”There’s no problem," he told them both. 

* * *

Somewhere in the third hour of her search, the words on Ruthie's screen began to blur. She sat back and rubbed her tired eyes. On the rare occasion she actually found an article about the old case, it almost never offered new information. Early on, she found the full name of Bennet's girlfriend, but her excitement faded when another quick search revealed she had died in a car accident nine years earlier. Maybe Sam was having better luck.

She stood up and stretched, then trotted downstairs to where she'd last seen him: the reference section near county and state records. He wasn't there, but a stack of books still lay on a little table next to the chair he'd been using. 

"Hey."

She looked up to see Sam trudging toward her, massaging the back of his neck. "Looks like you've been having as much fun as I have," she said.

"Pretty much." He gestured in the direction he'd come from. "I talked with the head librarian. She doesn't know anything about the old case. She said to check the newspapers."

“Yeah, that's a bust."

Sam looked at his stack of reference books and blew out a breath. "I guess we struck out. Let's hope Dean got something we can use."

"Should we head over there? See if he needs help rustling the bushes?" Cold dread seeped into Ruthie's skin at the thought of running into Monica again, but she had a job to do.

Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Let's go."

They hailed a cab for the ride to the hospital. Sam barely fit in the back; his long legs squashed against the back of the passenger seat. "I don't get it," he blurted five minutes into the drive. "Why did you guys think Amy was our—" he shot a glance at the back of the cab driver's head. "—our suspect, when the other case was twenty-five years ago? She would've been a toddler."

Ruthie shook her head. "We weren't thinking that critically. We just connected a few dots and freaked out."

"You're supposed to be the calm, logical one," he teased. "You're supposed to balance him out."

"Yeah. I don't know about that anymore."

Sam's head tilted to the side. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. He's just…different with me lately. One minute he's being extra nice, and the next he's pushing me away. I don't know why."

Sam watched her for a few seconds. His mouth opened, but then he stopped, pressed his lips together, and sat back in his seat. 

"What?" she demanded.

"It's not my place to say," he said.

"Sam, please! He's making me miserable. Tell me why."

He shook his head. "I don't know for sure."

"But you have a theory."

"Maybe. Look, Ruthie, he's my brother, and you're like my sister. I don't want to get in the middle of this, whatever it is."

She huffed and crossed her arms. Sam and his stupid ethics. "Fine. Be Switzerland, you big Swiss…person.”

“Wow.” Sam shook his head sadly. “I'm actually embarrassed for you. I didn't know you went to the Dean Winchester School of Comebacks."

She pursed her lips to keep from smiling. "I'm usually better than that. I'm just tired."

He snapped upright. "Wait. You're _tired?_ Who should I threaten at gunpoint?"

She gave him a shove, and they both laughed as the cab pulled up at the hospital. Sam texted Dean, but he didn't respond. 

"Should we split up?" Sam asked. "We can look for Dean and ask about Brandon as we go. I’ll take the first floor."

Her first impulse was to say no, that they should stick together. She didn't want to run into Monica alone again. But they'd cover twice as much ground his way. Time to be a big girl. "I'll start on the third, and we can meet in the middle." 

In the elevator on her way up, she wondered about Sam's theory. What did he suspect was causing Dean to treat her this way? Whatever it was, she hoped it would be over soon. She wanted to solve this case, get the monster, and go home. He hadn't been this bad at the bunker. He'd been distant there, yes, but she could handle that. And things had seemed to be improving. She smiled to herself, remembering their water fight. Heat rose in her cheeks as she recalled crashing into him half naked afterward, and his hands, heavy and protective on her shoulders. The heat spread when she remembered how he'd caught her later that night admiring the way his eyes flickered in the firelight and crinkled at the corners when he laughed at Cas. He'd held her gaze for just a moment, while a flush crept up from his collar. Then he'd dropped his eyes to his hands. But for that one moment, the fence was all but torn down. That one moment gave her hope.

If they could just finish this job and go home, maybe they'd get back to that place. 

The ding of the elevator startled her out of her thoughts. The doors slid open.

Dean stood there, suit jacket over one arm, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His head flinched back. She couldn't be sure if he had gone pale when he saw her, or if he'd already been pale when the doors opened. His eyes darted to his left. Ruthie looked, just in time to see the familiar back of a blonde woman in blue scrubs vanishing around the corner. 

Dean cleared his throat. "Hey! You find anything at the library?"

She shook her head. He waited, but she didn't say anything.

"Okay. Uh, so is Sam here too?"

She nodded. "First floor."

"Great." He joined her in the elevator. "I'm beat. Let's call it a day, huh?" He didn't look at her.

Ruthie swallowed. "Did you learn anything?"

"Hm?"

The doors slid closed.

"About who Brandon might have been seeing."

"Oh, right." He crossed his arms. "Not really. Nobody seems to know anything around here." He rubbed the side of his neck. 

Ruthie's body reacted before her mind could catch up. Ice water trickled down her spine. In the small, enclosed space, the air turned soupy, stifling, suffocating. Every breath was torture. Sweet, spicy poison burning its way down her throat and scalding her lungs. 

Monica's perfume.

Her scent, clinging to Dean like a noxious cloud.

And there, just below the spot he'd rubbed, on the side of his throat—where his skin looked so soft she'd often been tempted to touch it—a faint but brazen smudge of red. 

Nausea churned in Ruthie's belly; her feet turned to lead. Hot needles pricked behind her eyes. She stared ahead at their blurry reflections in the elevator doors. A sudden memory flashed before her: she and Monica, playing jacks together as little girls. One of the jacks seemed to be wedged in the back of her throat now.

The elevator bumped to a stop. She swallowed hard. She wasn’t going to make a scene. Not here. “Dean, can I ask you a favor?"

He glanced at her. "Shoot."

She blinked back the hot needles and raised her eyes to meet his. "Anyone but her."

His lips parted, he gave the slightest flinch. Then he recovered. "What are you talking abou—"

She put her hand on his forearm. A muscle jumped beneath her palm. "Please, just…anyone but her.”

His lips closed again. He dropped his gaze, crossing his arms tighter over his stomach.

The doors began to close. She hadn't noticed they'd opened. She stuck her arm out to stop them, and stepped out of the suffocating elevator. 

"Hey," Sam called. "I was just coming up. Ruthie?"

She didn't break stride. She had to get out of there, get away from that smell, this building. They could come meet her outside, in the fresh air. 

Sam tried to get each of them to talk in the car, but neither Dean nor Ruthie had anything to say. Dean glared at the road, shouting abuse at other drivers for every little infraction. Ruthie huddled against her door in the back seat, arms wrapped tightly around herself. With the windows down, the evening breeze washed away the awful fumes. They pulled up at the motel and climbed out. 

At the door, Sam stopped. "Guys, we don't have any food here. What about dinner?"

"I'll go pick something up," Ruthie said. Anything to be alone with her thoughts, and away from Dean.

"Fine." Dean tossed her the keys. "I'm going for a walk." He turned his back and marched away.

Sam waited until he rounded the corner. "Ruthie, what the hell is going on with you two?"

She gazed down the motel-door-lined sidewalk, to where Dean had disappeared. She tried to swallow down the sharp pain still lodged in her throat, and squeezed the car keys tight, trying to focus on the lesser pain in her palm. "It's not my place to say."


	14. Chapter 14

Dean walked the street aimlessly, hands stuffed into his pockets. He'd been a pro at self-loathing for a long time, but this was a new level, even for him. 

Hadn't he sworn to himself just weeks ago that he'd never hurt Ruthie again? But he'd seen her face in the elevator. She knew. He didn't know how, but she knew. Pain carved into her face as though she were some tragic sculpture. As though he'd etched it there himself with a hammer and chisel. 

Dean took a hard right into an alley. He felt dirty and exposed. He didn't want to face anyone, not even strangers on the street. 

What was he going to say to her? What _could_ he say? He could sleep on a sofa bed every night for the rest of his life and it wouldn't make a difference. Not now. 

Surely he'd used up her forgiveness quota in Reeds Spring. Since then, he'd tried so hard not to screw up. Not to give in to the vision Sam had planted in his head: Him and Ruthie, coming out of his room in the mornings, together. Happy. It had been harder than he'd expected. How many times had he caught her looking at him, and fought off the urge to kiss her? How many times had he lain awake at night, talking himself out of knocking on her door?

He'd worked so hard to keep things how they were, so he wouldn't screw it up. So he wouldn't hurt her. So she'd stay. Up until now he'd been winning the battle.

Now he'd lost the whole damn war. He'd hurt her in a way even she couldn't forgive. 

He paced back and forth beside an overflowing dumpster. The one thought he didn’t want to face was the one he couldn’t escape. He was going back to Monica. He knew it. Since that night in the garden, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his head. He knew what she’d done to Ruthie, knew she was trash. He hated her. But he couldn’t ignore this compulsion, or whatever it was. He’d gone back to the hospital every time he’d had the chance. Talking to HR, finding out who Brandon had been seeing: they were just excuses to see her. He hadn’t made out with her, hadn’t so much as kissed her. They’d barely even talked. She’d just smile at him, stretch up toward him like she was going to whisper in his ear. Press close to him, breathe against his neck. That was all. It was nothing. It was _everything_. She made him feel completely calm. Checked out. Not a care in the world. 

Pretty much the opposite of how he was feeling now. The moment he walked away from her, the clock began ticking. The pleasant fog started to thin. Already, his body and brain were whispering to him, urging him back to the hospital. Back to _her_. He’d learned the pattern. At midnight, their voices would be a constant chant, ordering him to obey. By morning, he'd barely be able to hide the tremors while his head pounded with his body's cries. 

He couldn’t understand it. But whatever this was between him and Monica, he wasn’t strong enough to fight it. Even though he knew he should. He was weak. Weak and screwed up and totally undeserving of Ruthie. He could still see her eyes, wide and terrified, the thin strip of red appearing on her skin beneath his blade. He’d falsely accused her. He’d almost _killed_ her. The guilt of it still stained his soul—a soul already damaged and broken, beyond repair. He’d thought there was no way he could cut her deeper than that. He’d been wrong. So damn wrong. He clenched his fists. Ruthie’s hand, cool and clammy on his arm in the elevator, her lips pale, voice strained. “Anyone but her.” She couldn’t have looked more shocked and wounded if he’d taken his knife and stabbed her in the heart.

The weight of his failures crashed down on him with physical force. He doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees. He sucked in lungfuls of stinking air through his dry throat.

The case didn't matter anymore. All that mattered was somehow protecting Ruthie from his betrayal. The way she'd looked at him in the elevator—he couldn't bear for her to look at him like that ever again.

But she would, wouldn’t she? Because he was a screw-up. Because he couldn’t make it more than six weeks without stabbing her in the back. Because being close with a Winchester—him in particular—rarely worked out well for anyone.

The solution came to him: as clear and simple as it was painful. He fought it, but only for a minute. And only because he was selfish and weak. 

He set his jaw and straightened up. He glared at nothing, then slammed his fist into the dumpster, sending a deep clang echoing down the alley. He shoved his stinging hand into his pocket and turned back toward the motel.

Walking to the door, he saw that the Impala was still gone. Good. He needed to talk to Sam alone. He stepped inside in time to hear the shower turn off. He went to the bathroom door, then paused. He'd get through this easier if he didn't have to look Sam in the eye. 

He leaned against the wall beside the door. "Hey, Sammy, we need to talk. I gotta tell you something before Ruthie gets back. You're not gonna like it, but just hear me out, okay?"

He heard a towel slide off the rack on the other side of the door. He hesitated, then forced the words out. "I think it's time for Ruthie to go."

The rustling sounds in the bathroom stopped. The clock on the wall ticked louder. 

He pushed on. "You've seen how she's been here. She was freaked out about seeing these people from her past, but she’s done great. It’s not even as bad as she made it out to be. Some of them really like her, like Amy, right?”

The towel whispered again. Dean took it as a good sign. 

"I'm just thinking, she only stayed with us because she hated it here so much. Because she couldn’t stand all the drama. But that’s all blown over now. She had a good life here, Sam. She could have it back. We’d be doing her a favor.”

Damn. This argument was actually sounding halfway real. But it wasn’t enough. He still needed to crush the life out of Sam’s hopes.

"I know you've got this idea in your head about her and me, but it's just not gonna work out. We drive each other nuts.” He needed to really sell this. He forced a casual tone even though the words turned his mouth sour. “Well, I guess I can't speak for her. But I know she drives me nuts. That creepy way she looks at me like she's trying to read my mind? I'm not gonna miss that." 

Time for the hard sell. 

"If she stays with us, you know this life only ends one way. I know you don't want that for her. And it wouldn't be so bad for us, huh? Just the two of us again? You can't tell me you don't miss it sometimes. I know I do."

Sam still didn't answer. Dean heard a pair of pants being pulled over a pair of long legs. 

A familiar rumble approached; headlights swept the room.

"Sam, she's back. Think about it. You know I'm right. She’ll be upset at first, but in the long run she’ll thank us. I’ll let you sleep on it, but I wanna do this soon, okay?”

A car door banged shut. The doorknob twisted; the door swung open.

Sam came in.

The bottom dropped out of Dean's stomach.

"You're back," Sam said, setting a brown paper bag on the table. "I got Chinese."

Dean stared at his brother, then at the bathroom door. His guts twisted like a nest of snakes. "I thought she was going to get food,” he said stupidly.

"I told her I'd do it," Sam said. "She looked like she'd had a rough day." He punctuated his statement with a pointed look.

The snakes coiled and writhed, striking at his insides. He stepped back from the bathroom door just before it opened.

He caught a glimpse of pale cheeks and red-rimmed eyes as she swept past him. She went straight to her bed and began stuffing clothes into her bag.

"Hey Ruthie, they had pork lo mein, like you wanted," Sam said, busy unloading the styrofoam containers.

She didn't respond. She crammed a final pair of jeans into her duffel and zipped the bag shut. Then she stood there for a moment with her back to them, her head bent, shoulders shaking.

Dean's heart buckled. He pressed a hand against the wall to steady himself.

Ruthie's shaking subsided to a tremble. She wiped her face and picked up her bag. She straightened and took a deep breath, then turned and came toward them.

No, she came toward Sam. She walked past Dean as though he were invisible. 

Her lips quivered as she got closer to Sam. She pressed them together so hard they turned white, but her face crumpled when she reached him. The bag thudded onto the floor. She threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. 

Sam hadn't seen her approach. He grinned and wrapped his arms around her. "It's just Chinese."

She was shaking again. Stifled, choking sobs filtered out, muffled by his shirt. 

"Hey, hey. What's wrong?" Sam put a comforting hand on the back of her head, and shot Dean a questioning look.

Dean couldn't hold his gaze. He looked down at the floor, wishing it would open up and swallow him right into Hell, where he belonged. 

Sam spotted Ruthie's bag on the floor beside them. His eyes widened; his forehead filled with deep furrows. "What's going on?"

Ruthie pulled away from Sam and wiped her eyes again. She spoke fast, in a quavering voice. "Please call me sometimes. I need to know you're okay." She picked up her bag and looked up at Sam once more. "I love you." Her voice cracked. She took a tiny, gasping breath, then rushed out the door. 

Sam turned to Dean, his expression wide with shock and confusion. Dean still couldn't look him in the eye.

"Ruthie, wait," Sam called, and ran after her.

Dean trudged to the sink and stuck his head under the faucet. Let cool water pour over his face. He still felt filthy. He turned, opened his mouth, filled it and gulped five or six times. Turned off the tap. Dragged himself to the table, dropped into a chair. Sam’s voice came through the open door, his words unintelligible. Then Ruthie’s, tearful but resolute. Dean rested his elbows on his knees and pressed the heels of his hands into his throbbing temples. Squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of Ruthie’s face, contorted with pain. But that only sharpened his hearing. Sam was begging now, the word _please_ impossible to mistake. 

A car pulled up outside. A final plea from Sam, a choked reply from Ruthie. A car door opened, then slammed shut. The car pulled away.

A numb minute passed. Sam’s footsteps returned, slow and uneven. He stopped just inside the door. “She left.” His voice sounded hollow.

Dean rubbed hard, slow circles into his temples.

“Dean.” Sam’s tone was sharp now. Accusing. “She _left._ ”

Dean’s arms were too tired to keep rubbing. He let them drop onto the table. He wished he’d thought to pick up some scotch.

“She said you wanted her to go. _Look_ at me.”

Dean raised his head. Sam’s mouth was a thin slash above a tightly clenched jaw. His eyes flickered, flashing anger one second and radiating loss the next.

“It’s better this way.”

Sam’s mouth opened; his brows jumped, then crouched low over his eyes.

“It’s better for her, Sam.”

Sam stared at him, his face like a gathering storm. “Did you see her? Did you see what you’re _doing_ to her?”

Dean winced. “I’m doing what’s best for her.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “No.” He shook his head. He looked out the door, to where Ruthie had stood minutes before. “You’re scared. You want to run, but you’re too proud. You’re making her run instead.” He turned back to Dean, fixing him with a look eerily like Ruthie’s x-ray stare. “You’re a coward.”

Dean had no response. No defense. He sat there, staring down at his hands. Eventually, Sam went into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. Dean hauled himself to the sofa and collapsed onto it. He didn’t bother to undress. 

_This is good,_ he told himself. She’d gotten out. He hadn’t meant for it to happen the way it did, but the result was the same. She’d gotten away. She was safe now. He had hurt her for the last time.

_This is good._

He tried to swallow the dry burning in his throat, and failed. Shutting his eyes, he let the darkness swallow him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, dear reader, did you suspect it wasn't Sam in the bathroom, or were you as shocked as Dean?


	15. Chapter 15

Sam splashed coffee over the rim of his cup while he poured, then aggressively peeled a banana. When he woke up, Dean and the Impala had already gone. No note. And Ruthie hadn’t returned.

So, he ate breakfast alone in a silent motel room. He had no idea whether Dean was working the case or not, and Sam was still too pissed off to call him. The way he’d just sat there as Ruthie packed up and left…and the way he’d tried to justify it. Sam paused with his coffee halfway to his mouth. Maybe losing Lisa and Ben had damaged Dean even worse than he’d suspected. Maybe Dean really had determined never to let himself get that close to anyone again. Why else would he have pushed Ruthie away?

Sam still didn’t know what Dean had done. Ruthie hadn’t told him. He’d followed her outside, asked her what had happened. 

She stared across the parking lot, her eyes red in the harsh electric light of the street lamps. She swallowed, then spoke in a low, raspy voice. “He wants me to go.”

“But what happened?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.” Even as she said it, her eyes filled, her shoulders curled in.

“But you know something. What is it? Please, let me help.”

Her mouth tightened. She spun toward him, expression fierce, sparks shooting from her eyes. "Remember that time when he thought I betrayed you, and then almost slit my throat?” Acid dripped from each word.

Sam flinched, and waited. Obviously, it was a rhetorical question. 

The blaze in her eyes died as quickly as it had ignited, doused by the fresh tears now glistening there. Something in her face splintered. “This is worse," she whispered. She turned away. 

This was worse? _Good God._ What had Dean done?

“Ruthie, please. Where will you go?”

“I’ve got a ride.”

Sam stepped toward her. “ _I_ don’t want you to go. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

She tightened her grip on her bag. She didn’t look at him, but her voice wavered. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

Sam squinted as a pair of bright headlights illuminated the two of them. A little BMW pulled up to the curb. 

She still looked straight ahead. She spoke once more, her tone strained and brittle. “I wish we’d never come here.”

The trunk popped open, then the driver’s door opened. A handsome, dark-haired man got out and gave Sam an awkward wave. Ruthie hesitated for an instant, then stepped off the curb in a rush, as though she’d had to summon her courage to do it. As though she were jumping off a cliff. The man met her at the back of the car, took her bag, and put it in the trunk. She muttered a “thank you,” and glanced at Sam once more as she ducked into the passenger seat. Her chin trembled. 

He couldn’t see her face through the tinted windows as they drove away. 

* * *

Amy hadn't responded when Ruthie texted her from the bathroom. Might have had something to do with Ruthie pointing a gun at her the last time they saw each other. She’d reached out to Mike in desperation—and because she hoped it would hurt Dean, like he’d hurt her. Make him regret what he’d done. Make him jealous.

But that was stupid. He’d made it perfectly clear how he felt about her. 

Now, riding in silence next to Mike, she cursed her rash decision. She’d only asked if she could crash for one night, but every block they drove, her anxiety mounted. A video clip of the last time she’d been at his apartment played on repeat in her head: the door opening, Ruthie grinning in anticipation of surprising Mike. Monica standing there in his t-shirt.

What the hell had she been thinking? She couldn’t go back there. She wouldn’t. 

Before she could decide where to ask him to take her, he missed his turn.

“Where are we going?” She didn’t bother to disguise the suspicion in her tone.

Mike glanced at her. “Oh, that’s right; you don’t know. I moved. I couldn't stay there. Not after…I just couldn’t stay there.”

“Oh.” Some of her tension eased. A numb emptiness settled into its place. Dean’s cutting words echoed in her ears for the rest of the drive.

After Mike parked and got her bag from the trunk, she followed him up a flight of stairs to the second floor of a nice brick apartment building. Inside, new furniture had replaced his familiar couch and coffee table. “I’ll change the sheets,” Mike said. “You can have the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, thank you. I prefer the couch.” She wasn’t sleeping in his bed. She wouldn’t set that precedent.

“Are you sure?” 

She nodded. 

“Okay. I’ll get you some sheets and a blanket. There are towels in the bathroom.”

She ran her fingers over a section of still-damp hair. “I’m good.” The words vibrated with dissonance, rattling her brain. She sank onto the couch while Mike disappeared down the hallway. 

He reappeared a minute later, arms piled with white sheets, a red blanket, and a pillow. She stood and helped him spread a sheet over the couch. 

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else?” he asked.

Ruthie shook her head. “Just sleep.”

“Okay. I’ll try not to wake you on my way out in the morning.”

“I’m sorry to impose.” 

“No,” he said quickly. He paused, one hand lingering on the arm of the couch. “I’m glad you texted me.”

The knot in her throat tightened. “Amy didn’t answer and I…I didn’t have anyone else to ask.”

They stood in silence, gazing down, avoiding eye contact. 

“Will you…” He trailed off, tapping the armrest with a forefinger and glancing around the apartment. “Will you be here when I get home tomorrow evening?”

“Well, I don’t have a car, so I can’t go far. In fact, I was hoping you might be able to give me a ride to the cabin. My truck is still there.” She hated to keep asking favors of him, but she had no one else. She hated the thought of running off to hide in the cabin again, too. But she had nowhere else to go. 

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Sure. I’ll be glad to. I can take you tomorrow if you want. After dinner, maybe?” His voice lifted with hope at the end. 

Why not? She had to eat. “Okay. Thank you.”

“But you can stay as long as you need.” He turned toward the hall, then stopped. He spun back to her and blurted, “I have to know. That FBI agent. Did he hurt you?” The muscles bunched up at the sides of his jaw; his fist pressed into the armrest. 

Ruthie held back a bitter laugh. This role reversal was enough to give her whiplash. _Yes,_ she wanted to say. _No one’s ever hurt me like this. Not even you._

She pinched her mouth closed and shook her head. “He never laid a hand on me.” 

* * *

With no car, no Dean, and no Ruthie, Sam holed up in the motel room most of the day. He did go for a run in the morning, and took a long, hot shower afterward. He tackled the case again, searching for anything he could find about part-insect monsters, but everything led to dead ends. Still wiped out from the night before, he eventually gave up and took a nap.

His ringing phone snapped him awake. He didn’t recognize the number. He glanced at the clock: 4:45 pm. Still nothing from Dean or Ruthie. “This is Dr. Ulrich,” he answered, trying not to sound like he’d just woken up. 

“Yeah, hi. This is Buck. I got your number from the lady at the hospital. In the records office.”

Sam sat up and rubbed his forehead, trying to clear the sleep cobwebs from his mind. “Oh, yes. Uh, Phyllis?”

“Right. So, I think I might be able to help you out, but I gotta ask you a question first.”

Sam frowned. Who was this guy? “Okay. Go ahead.”

“Have you ruled out cursed objects yet?”

Sam froze. The man at the other end of the line stayed quiet. 

“Who is this?” Sam asked. 

“Answer the question.”

Sam glanced around the room, and figured he had nothing to lose. “Yes. We’ve ruled them out.”

“Awright. So you’re not incompetent. Okay, I’ll help you out. Meet me at Carlisle Park in half an hour. I’ll be the old guy in a cowboy hat.”

“Wait. How do you—” 

But he had already hung up. 

Sam caught a cab and made it to the park with five minutes to spare. It sat across the street from the hospital, and sprawled across acres of open green space, with big trees sprinkled around the edges. Sam headed for a picnic area, and soon spotted a man in a black cowboy hat at one of the tables. He approached cautiously, and took a seat on the bench across from the guy. Ruddy, leathery cheeks topped a grizzly gray beard.

“Buck?”

Small bright eyes gave him a once-over. “Yeah. And I figure your name ain’t Dr. Ulrich.”

“Sam Winchester.”

“Any relation to John Winchester?”

“He was my father. Did you know him?”

“He’s dead, then?”

Sam nodded. 

Buck gazed off toward a distant playground, where kids jumped off swings and barreled down slides. “He helped me out with a Wendigo once. Musta been fifteen, twenty years ago. Good guy. Good hunter.” He turned back to Sam. “He ever get that yellow-eyed demon?”

Sam shook his head. “No. But my brother did.”

Buck nodded. “Your brother on this hunt with you?”

“Yes.” Sam tapped his foot on the ground. “You said you could help us. What do you know about this case?”

“Down to business, huh? Awright. You boys figured out yet there was a case like this here twenty-five years ago?”

Sam nodded.

“Well, I never did catch the damned thing. But I knew what it was. I’d run into one once before. In Greece.”

“Greece?”

“Yeah. That’s where they’re from. Where most of ‘em still are, though there ain’t many left. Buddy a mine got hitched over there. Good times, up until his best man got sucked dry durin’ the bachelor party. We found ‘im in the hotel room when we came up from the bar.”

Sam sat up straighter. A hunter who’d had experience with this kind of monster? It was almost too good to be true. “So, what is it?”

“Kounoúpi. Greek for mosquito. Nasty critters. My buddy and me hooked up with a couple Greek hunters to try and track it. Never could find it. But when another one turned up here all those years ago, one of those Greek guys agreed to send me his notes on ‘em.” Buck pulled a slim, battered, leather-bound notepad from his jacket. “Said he had it all memorized.” He slid it across the table to Sam. 

Sam could hardly believe his luck. As he picked up the notepad, he asked, “How did you find me?”

Buck chuckled. “I used to do the job, son. If it’d been me, I’d’ve showed up at the hospital flashin’ a badge or wearin’ a white coat, askin’ questions. All I had to do was call in and see if any feds’d been around. Said I had info for ‘em.”

Sam flipped open the notebook, and his hopes fell. “This is all in Greek.”

“Yeah, but he translated all the important stuff. You can see his notes in the margins. Said he did his best, anyway.”

“Okay. Why don’t you tell me everything you know, just in case.”

“Well, kounoúpi are always female. It’s passed down, mother to daughter. They look human, act human, practically are human up until they hit their prime, as the Greeks call it.”

“When is that?” 

“Can vary, but usually somewhere around thirty.”

“And then what happens?”

“Then they have to start feedin’. No physical change, really, except when they’re ready to bite. Then the tip of their tongue stretches out, gets all thin and sharp and pointy.”

“Like a mosquito.”

Buck nodded. 

Sam thought of the puncture wounds. “Do they always bite their victims in the mouth?”

“Usually, but not always. They gotta get in close to bite, so they try and seduce their victims. Bite ‘em while they’re kissin’ ‘em. You ever hunt a siren?”

“Yeah.” It wasn’t a pleasant memory. The monster had infected him and Dean both. They’d nearly killed each other on its orders.

“Kounoúpi have some stuff in common with sirens—both from Greece, you know. They’re probably related, like horses and zebras. You know how sirens infect their victims with their saliva?”

Sam nodded. He knew firsthand.

“And did you know mosquitos don’t just suck blood; they inject their saliva into the bite? It keeps the blood from clottin’ so they can keep drinkin’. Well, these things inject their prey, too. Even a quick bite pumps in toxin. The longer they feed, the more they inject. It does somethin’ to the vic." Buck squinted at Sam from under the brim of his hat. "Doesn’t give ‘em a high, exactly. Sorta puts ‘em in the opposite of fight or flight mode. Kinda zones ‘em out, makes ‘em stay still so the kounoúpi can feed easy. Scrambles their brains, too. Makes their memories of the feeding all foggy. Them Greek fellas even told me about hunters goin' after kounoúpi, gettin' fed on, showing all the symptoms, and never havin' a clue. And here’s the kicker: that stuff’s about a hundred times as addictive as heroin. After the first bite, their meals come to them.”

Sam sat back, trying to absorb this. “So they don’t always kill their victims?”

“Nope. The smart ones never do. They can feed off one for few weeks, then move on before he gets emaciated without attractin’ too much attention. The vic goes through withdrawal, like quittin' benzos cold turkey. Feels like havin' meningitis or somethin', like he's gonna die. Once in awhile, they do. Greek fella said it’s usually the new ones, the ones who've just turned, who'll kill. Mostly ‘cause they don’t know any better and get carried away. But some’ll do it if they haven't fed in a long time, or just for spite.”

Questions shot through Sam’s head faster than he could ask them. “What exactly are they feeding on?”

Buck scratched his whiskers. “Good question. Best I understand is they’re feeding on the victim’s energy. His ‘life force’ is what the Greeks said. Their venom binds the energy to the liquid in the body, and they just drink it.”

The pieces were starting to fall into place. “That’s why the victims get tired and thirsty, and have headaches. They’re dehydrated.”

Buck nodded. “Another thing they have in common with sirens: they like to seduce victims who already love somebody else. A siren’ll make its victim murder their loved ones. Kounoúpi don't make 'em kill, not that I’ve heard of, anyway. They just enjoy watchin' ‘em suffer, gettin' eaten up by guilt for comin' back over and over. Betrayin' their wives or girlfriends. Hatin' themselves for it, and not bein' able to stop.”

“That explains the guilt.”

“They ‘specially like to take the husbands and boyfriends of women they’re close to. Friends with.”

Sam grimaced in disgust. Time to take a closer look at all of Amy’s friends.

Buck produced a flask and took a swig. “Toldja they were nasty critters.”

Sam leaned across the table. “How do we kill it?”

“Thought you’d never ask. You remember how to kill a siren?”

“Bronze knife, dipped in the blood of the victim.”

Buck nodded again. “With kounoúpi, it’s a stone knife dipped in blood. ‘Dipped in the lifeblood of the beloved,’ accordin’ to this fella’s notes.”

Sam frowned. “Lifeblood of the beloved?”

“Yep.” Buck flipped through the notebook, and pointed to a page with Greek writing and a rough drawing of a stone blade. “See?”

Sam spotted the translation scribbled beneath the Greek. 

“Means you gotta coat the blade in the blood of the one the victim loves, I figure. The one he’s betrayin’ by goin’ to the kounoúpi.”

Sam’s gaze snapped from the paper to Buck’s face. “You _figure?_ Haven’t you ever killed one?”

Buck’s ears reddened under the brim of the cowboy hat. “Well, no. I toldja I never did catch that one.”

Sam gestured at the notebook. “But this guy, from Greece. He’s killed one, right?”

The old hunter tugged at his ear. “Not that I know of.”

Sam blew out a breath and raked both hands through his hair. 

Buck pointed at the notepad. “But he did all this research there in Greece. Got it from other hunters. The info is good.”

Sam pressed his fingertips into his forehead, and tried to figure out how to ask Amy for a big blood sample. “Okay. Thanks, Buck. This is really helpful. We were stuck, so thank you.”

Buck glanced around the park. “Where is your brother, anyway?”

* * *

By late afternoon, Ruthie couldn’t stand being in the apartment any longer. She hadn’t heard from Sam—not that she’d really expected to. He and Dean had a case to work. They’d get back to a normal routine before too long. Just the two of them again, like Dean said. Like he wanted.

She wondered if Dean had told Sam the truth about why she’d left. Then she told herself it didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered now. 

She left the apartment and started walking nowhere in particular, trying to think about anything but Dean, and failing. Finding him had been the start of her new life. Grown from the ashes of her old one. Now it was gone, too. Burned to the ground, just like the first. And the same person had lit the match both times. 

She stared down at the blurry sidewalk, avoiding eye contact with other pedestrians. How could Dean have done this to her? She still couldn’t understand it. Of all the women on the planet…

In the elevator, she'd pleaded with him, "Anyone but her." Between the suffocating fumes and the strangling tightness of her throat, she'd barely been able to breathe, let alone speak. It had been the quickest way to tell him, "I know what you're doing. How could you? Please stop hurting me."

But in the aftermath, she'd turned her own words over and over in her head. She imagined Dean taking them to heart, never seeing Monica again. Choosing some other faceless woman instead. Ruthie pictured herself waiting at the bunker, making dinner. The boys coming home after a hunt. Greeting Dean, and smelling another woman's scent on his clothes, spotting her lipstick on his skin. The thought tore at her insides like a pack of wolves. 

She'd wanted to stay with them so badly that she'd convinced herself she could suppress her feelings. But she was wrong. She couldn't just be his friend. Not anymore.

Maybe it was for the best that he'd sent her away. 

She wandered for an hour or two, making a big circle back toward Mike’s place. She was getting hungry, and eager to get the hell out of this city. It was nearly six by the time she started up the stairs. She knocked on the door, even though she had the key he’d left for her. He didn’t answer. Weird. She’d expected him to be home by now. 

She unlocked the door and stepped inside. Mike’s car keys lay on the slim stand in the entryway. She knew they hadn’t been there when she left. 

“Mike?”

The front room was deserted, but now a vase sat on the coffee table, filled with bluebells. Her favorite flowers. Ruthie looked at them for a second before closing her eyes and letting out a sigh. She had forgiven Mike, and asked him for help. This was her fault. She couldn’t blame him for getting his hopes up, but it wasn’t going to work. Leaving the bluebells behind, she walked past the kitchen. A bottle of red wine and two stemmed glasses sat on the little table. Two partially unpacked grocery sacks had appeared on the counter. Garlic, onions, celery, sausage, cans of diced tomatoes: he was making spaghetti bolognese. Another of her favorites. Ruthie blew out an exasperated breath. When she’d agreed to stay for dinner, this was not what she’d had in mind. She’d have to let him down firmly. This was going to make for a very awkward drive to the cabin.

But where was he? Silence filled the apartment, so thick she could almost breathe it. “Mike?” She headed down the little hallway toward the bedroom. The guest bathroom door was open; the room was empty. Ahead, the bedroom door was halfway open, too. Why hadn’t he heard her? Maybe he was in the master bathroom. 

“Hey, Mike?” she called. No response.

Her blood pressure climbed as she made her way down the hall. What was he playing at? She really didn’t need this right now. At the bedroom door, she tried one more time. “Mike?” Nothing.

Finished with this game, she squared her shoulders and pushed the door wide open. 

He lay face up on the still-made bed, dark hair spread over his pillow, white lab coat still on. 

Without them, she’d never have guessed that this shrunken, shriveled, leathery _thing_ was Mike Boothe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my lovelies, how are your theories panning out? Did you call it? Time to claim your bragging rights! And I must know: how are we feeling about Mike now?


	16. Chapter 16

Buck’s question about Dean brought unpleasant recent memories curling up through Sam’s mind like smoke from a doused fire. “I don’t know where he is right now.”

Buck’s eyes narrowed. “When’s the last time you saw ‘im?”

Sam shifted on the hard bench. “Last night. It’s fine. I’m sure he’s just…” He trailed off. He couldn’t think of a good excuse.

Buck sat up straight. “He been actin’ strange at all?”

Sam eyed the old hunter, whose whole demeanor now telegraphed alarm. He scrambled to think of something reassuring to say, to get his stomach to stop swinging like the kids on the playground. But instead, rapid-fire images burst across his mind’s eye: Dean rubbing his head at the table last night, the glass of water at breakfast, Ruthie leaving in tears. Dean, slumped forward, saying it was better for her that way.

His heart spasmed. He saw it again, as clearly as if they were standing in front of him: Monica pressing against Dean, stretching up toward him, her face against the side of his neck as though she were whispering in his ear. Dean’s blank, checked out expression.

“Oh my God.” Sam snatched the notebook and jumped up from the table. “I have to go.”

Buck rose and put a hand on Sam’s arm. “Hang on. You probably don’t have one of these handy.” He reached into his jacket again and pulled out a bundle wrapped in brown paper. “Here.” He held it out to Sam. “Stone knife.”

Sam took it. “Thanks.” He turned to go, then spun around, panic gripping his stomach. “He has the car!”

Buck stuffed his hand in his pocket and tossed Sam a set of keys. He jerked his head toward the road at the nearest edge of the park. “The old green Chevy.”

“Thank you,” Sam called over his shoulder, already sprinting. He dialed Dean as he ran. It rang until voicemail picked up. “Dean, call me as soon as you get this.” He reached the battered green pickup and jumped in, tossing his supplies onto the passenger seat. He paused, hands on the steering wheel, trying to calm his racing thoughts enough to make a plan. He had to find Dean, obviously. He had the knife now, but the weapon alone wasn’t enough. Would Amy’s blood even work anymore, now that Brandon wasn’t the current victim? He doubted it. 

He knew who he needed. But she might not be inclined to help Dean at the moment. 

Sam would just have to explain. She’d understand. She’d help. It’s who she was.

He grabbed his phone, but it rang before he could dial. “Ruthie!”

Gasping, panicked breathing filled his ear. Her voice shook like dry grass in the wind. “Sam, he’s dead. It killed him.”

A concussion grenade exploded in Sam’s chest. The steering wheel retreated into the distance; everything around him shrank and went dim. A high-pitched buzzing drowned out Ruthie’s terrified breaths.

All he saw was his brother’s face. Then, a second blast wave shoved him back in his seat. His last words to Dean thrummed through his head, threatening to burst his eardrums. _“You’re a coward.”_

Her voice, distant and muffled, dueled against his own echoing words and the ringing in his ears. “Sam? I can’t stay here. Please come get me.”

Her desperation pierced through his cloud of numb grief. He answered robotically. “Where are you?”

“Wadsworth and Taft. Mike’s apartment. I’ll wait for you at the entrance.”

His heart gave one little throb of hope. “Wait. Ruthie…who’s dead?”

“Mike!” she wailed. “He helped me because I asked him to, and now he’s dead. Not just dead, he was…oh, God.” A ragged sob tore out of her. 

The steering wheel rushed back to its place; the world reverted to its regular proportions. His heart started pumping again, flooding life back into his limbs. Sam turned the engine. “Ruthie, hold tight. I’m coming.”

His prayers not to get pulled over as he sped to her were answered. She threw her bag into the bed of the truck, climbed into the passenger side, and dived across the console into his arms. He held her tight in silence for several moments. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured. 

She pulled away, pushed her hair out of her face, and took a long, shaky breath. “I’m sorry to call you like this. I know Dean doesn’t want me around.” Her pale lips trembled. “But I had to get out of there. If you can just take me to the cabin, I won’t bother you anymore.”

He grabbed her hand; she started and looked up at him. “Ruthie, I know why Dean’s been acting this way. He’s been drugged.”

“What do you mean?”

"I just met a hunter who knows all about this kind of monster. It’s called a kounoúpi. They inject an addictive toxin that makes their victims keep coming back to them. It’s why Amy thought Brandon was cheating on her, and why Steven Bennet called his girlfriend, saying he was sorry.”

She stared at him. He could almost see her gears turning. “But that would mean…" She turned her head and looked sideways at him through narrowed eyes. "That’s not possible. I’ve known her my whole life. She was five when Steven Bennet died.”

“And five when her mom took off, right? It’s genetic. They don’t turn until around age thirty.”

Her dark eyes widened; her breathing turned shallow. She stared out the window, toward a second-floor apartment window. “She told me her mom came back a few months ago—when she turned thirty. That she understood herself better now.” She turned back to Sam, brimming eyes even wider than before. “So when we were engaged, Mike didn’t—” She broke off, slumping forward. “It wasn’t his fault,” she choked. “It was all her. All of it.”

Sam put a hand on her shoulder. He knew she must be struggling under an avalanche of emotions right now, but his priority was his brother. “Ruthie, she’s been feeding on Dean. I haven’t heard from him all day. He must have gone back to her. She’s killed twice now. We have to find him.”

She raised her tear-stained face, fists clenched on her lap. When she spoke, her voice was steady. “What do we do?”

He blew out a relieved breath. “First, we find him.” He nodded toward the apartment. “Any idea how long ago she was here?”

“Within the past couple hours.”

“Okay.” He looked around, hoping for inspiration. “Maybe we should go check at the hospital.” He turned the truck around and pulled onto the street. “Why don’t you try his phone again on the way.”

 

* * *

 

Ruthie hesitated for only a second before pulling out her phone. She’d need weeks to process everything she’d seen and learned in the past half hour, but there was no time now. A turmoil of emotions seethed inside her: cold horror at what she’d discovered in Mike’s bedroom, vast, boundless relief that Dean hadn’t voluntarily chosen Monica, and paralyzing fear of what she might be doing to him right now. She beat them all back, suppressing them as well as she could, and touched his name on her screen.

It rang once, twice. 

“Hey, Ruthie!”

The bubbly voice sent icicle-legged beetles scuttling over her skin. She shot a sideways look at Sam. “Where’s Dean?” Her own voice sounded strange and shrill in her ears.

“Oh, he wanted to make a pit stop. I don't think he's feeling very well. He ran in to use the bathroom and get a bottle of water. He seems pretty thirsty.” She giggled, triggering a fresh charge of ice-footed bugs down Ruthie's spine. 

“Where are you going?” Ruthie tried to sound casual.

“Oh, a romantic spot I know. Hey, Ruthie, I gotta ask: have you two figured it out yet? Dean hasn't, but he's got a good excuse. I've had him on an accelerated program. You and Sam, though? You sort of suck at this whole hunting thing."

For a moment, Ruthie's anger flared past her fear. "You're a kounoúpi."

"Wow!" Ruthie heard clapping. "Guess I underestimated you, Tru. Took you guys long enough, though." She giggled again. "I’m glad you called. I have to thank you. Taking not just one man from you, but two? It’s like, the biggest rush you can imagine. And remember how I told you I wanted to have his babies? I’m going to. Well, one at least.”

Ruthie’s stomach heaved. Sam pulled the truck over to the side of the road and watched her, his face anxious and strained.

“That's what the romantic spot is for. We’re nearly extinct; did you know that? My mom told me. It’s basically my duty to perpetuate the species, with the best physical specimens possible, of course. Poor me, right?” She laughed, a chilling imitation of the sound Ruthie remembered. “Of course, I’ll kill him afterward. Don’t be mad at me; that’s just nature. Like a praying mantis. His life force will help nurture the baby; that should make you happy. A brand new little half-Dean kounoúpi. And he’s a _hunter!_ It’s all too perfect. Although he was a tough nut to crack, I'll give him that. All the others I've gotten the old-fashioned way. With him, I had to improvise.”

Ruthie’s heart thudded against her ribcage. “Monica, please. You just took Mike—”

“Oh, you saw that? I wasn’t planning on it at all. But when I heard you’d spent the night at his place I just couldn’t help myself. It’s a compulsion.”

Revulsion soured Ruthie’s stomach. She took a slow breath, fighting back nausea. “We were friends. If you ever cared about me at all, I’m begging you; please let Dean go.” She waited, heart in her throat.

Monica let out a long sigh. “Oh, Ruthie. Appealing to my humanity? Sort of a futile effort. I’d have to be human.”

Ruthie darted a glance at Sam. A current of dread coursed between them.

“He’s coming back,” Monica chirped. “Gotta let you go, Tru. Nice talking with you.”

Ruthie lowered the phone, hand trembling. Sam waited, watching her.

“She’s going to kill him. After—” She could hardly make herself say it. “After he gets her pregnant.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “Where are they?” 

“I don’t know. But I know where they’re going.”

 

* * *

 

Sam pushed the old truck to its limits, roaring up the highway toward Ruthie’s cabin. “You’re sure that’s where they’re going?”

Ruthie nodded. “She said she was taking him somewhere romantic. She always said the cabin was a romantic spot.” She paused, then went on in a brittle voice. “And she seems to enjoy hurting me in every way possible.”

For a moment, Sam wondered if Dean had been right, even in his drugged state. Maybe Ruthie would be better off away from them. In the past two months she’d been kidnapped, cursed, nearly killed by a witch, set up by a ghost, almost murdered by Dean, dragged back to a place she never wanted to see again, betrayed and exiled by Dean, and traumatized by discovering her former fiancé sucked dry by an insect monster. And now he was about to ask more of her.

Ruthie beat him to it. “How do we kill her?” She looked at him, voice steady, jaw set at a determined angle. 

Sam lifted his chin toward the paper-wrapped package on the dashboard in front of her. “Stone knife.” He paused. “The notebook says it has to be dipped in the ‘lifeblood of the beloved.’”

“Okay. What does that mean?”

He flipped on the headlights, illuminating the darkening road. “Kounoúpi choose victims who already love someone. They like stealing them. The blade needs to be coated in the blood of the person the victim loves.”

She paused for only a moment. “So, it’s you. Dean loves you more than anyone.”

“I don’t think that’s the sort of love it means.”

She blinked at him, her mouth forming an expanding O. “Then what are we going to _do?_ Lisa lives in Indiana!”

Sam whipped his head around so hard his neck popped. “How do you know about Lisa?”

She clamped her mouth shut, her face flushing pink. She turned her gaze to the road, and spoke quietly. “When you guys got home from that rough vampire job in Wichita, you really went all out on unwinding. At some point in the night, you asked Dean how old Ben would be now. He said he was going to break your nose. He tried to punch you, but he fell over and passed out. I asked you who Ben was, and you told me all about them. You don’t remember?”

Sam wiped a hand across his forehead. “No. And it would probably be best if you never mention to Dean that I told you.”

“It won’t matter if he’s dead! How are we going to get her blood?”

“Ruthie…” This conversation was going to be as awkward as he’d feared. “I know Dean cared about Lisa. I’m sure part of him still does. But she’s not who we need.” 

He gave Ruthie a meaning-filled look before turning his attention back to the road. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ruthie staring at him. She sat frozen for several seconds, then slowly shook her head. “No. You’re wrong.”

“I know him, Ruthie.”

“You didn’t hear him last night.” Her voice hitched. “He can’t stand me.”

“You know that’s not true. It was the venom talking, not him.”

Her head shook more vigorously. “It’s not me, Sam. It can’t be. He’s been shutting me out for weeks. Long before Monica.”

Sam tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “He’s scared. He’s scared of getting close and then losing you. Scared of hurting you. Scared that this job, this life will get you killed, and that he won’t be able to handle it.” He forced down the twinge of guilt pricking at his chest. “It’s not my place to be telling you this. I don't think he's even admitted it to himself yet. But this is sort of an emergency. He loves you, Ruthie. I know it.”

She gazed out at the road, swallowing hard, hands gripping her armrests. Her dark lashes fluttered; her chest rose and fell in shuddering breaths. “What if you’re wrong?” she finally whispered. 

He exhaled and put his eyes back on the road. “Then we slow her down somehow. Enough to get him out of there. We’ll figure the rest out later.”

She pressed her lips together and nodded.

Sam gritted his teeth and pressed the gas harder. This would work. It had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are we feeling about this plan, my dears? Is Sam right? Any feelings about Monica's plan?


	17. Chapter 17

Ruthie opened the old notebook and flipped through it, mostly to give her hands something to do. She idly tried translating some of the Greek writing—she'd taken one semester in college—but the words barely registered. Her eyes shifted forward more frequently as they got closer to Washington Mill and the remote road that would take them to her dad's cabin.

Not a mile went by without Sam's words echoing through her mind. She'd do what he wanted; if he thought it would save Dean and stop Monica, of course she'd do it. But was there any chance he was right?

She took the lumpy, brown paper package and tore it open. A rough-edged, gray stone knife fell into her lap. Thin strips of leather wrapped the grip. The weapon was a single carved piece of stone, from the handle to the tip of the eight inch long blade. She imagined shoving it into Monica, and shuddered.

"I'll do it." Sam was giving her a concerned look. "You don't have to be there."

She nodded, only because she didn't want to talk. She wouldn't wait in the car. Not this time.

Her hands tensed around the knife and notepad. The familiar glow of Washington Mill appeared in the darkness ahead, a cozy grouping of lights brightening the Idaho night. Sam rolled past the Four Feathers Inn and the pharmacy where she'd first laid eyes on him. He wore a similar expression now: anxious and haunted. Back then, she'd watched his whole face brighten when he learned his brother was alive and well. This time, she had no reassurance to offer.

The library and police station shrank in her mirror. The road narrowed and wound up into the mountains. Her breaths came faster as the trees grew thicker. What would they find in the cabin? What if they were too late? For an instant, she imagined finding Dean the way she'd found Mike just a couple hours ago. Her stomach convulsed; bile boiled up through her throat. She would have been sick if she hadn't already retched everything up in the guest bathroom at Mike's apartment. She pressed her cheek against the cool glass of the window and breathed through her nose.

The dark miles up the mountain slipped past in a queasy blur. Sam slowed the truck and pulled off the side of the road just before they reached the gravel driveway. "Hopefully I can catch her by surprise."

Ruthie nodded and opened the glovebox. She dug around for napkins, and found a blue bandana. She grabbed it and the knife, then tucked the notebook into the back of her jeans before stepping out into the long grass. Sam came around to meet her as she held her left arm out. Before she could overthink it, she laid the sharp edge of the stone blade on her forearm, pressed down, and dragged it across her skin.

Her nerve endings fired off angry protestations as her skin opened. A red stream flowed from each end of the deep cut, forming a band around her arm and dripping down onto the ground. She clenched her teeth against the pain and wiped the flat of the blade across the band. That only smeared the rough stone, leaving gray spots showing through. She held the knife just under her arm, pouring blood directly onto the blade. She turned the handle, watched the liquid splash over the dry spots, wondering if she was the right person. If her blood could turn this piece of rock into a magical monster-killing weapon.

When the blade was covered and dripping, she held it out to Sam, grip-first. "Do you think that's enough?"

He set his jaw and nodded, but took the bandana from her rather than the knife. He wrapped it twice around her wound, then tied it tight. She thought of all the far worse injuries she'd treated for him, and ordered herself to ignore the stinging and throbbing.

They looked toward the cabin. The Impala sat out front beside her truck, and light glowed through the tiny window in the front door. Sam took the knife from her outstretched hand. "Okay. Why don't you wait here. I'll take care of this."

She shook her head. "I'm coming. You may need backup."

He looked at her for only a second before his gaze darted back to the cabin. He pulled his gun from his waistband and handed it over. Then he led the way.

She stepped as lightly as she could, but gravel still crunched underfoot. They passed the Impala and crept up the two front steps. Sam hefted the knife in one hand and tried the doorknob with the other. It turned. He looked at Ruthie with a slight raise of his eyebrows. She gave him a single nod and tightened her grip on the gun. She swallowed hard, not at all sure she was ready for whatever was on the other side of the door.

Sam pushed it open silently and stepped inside. She followed, heart hammering in her throat. They paused in the short hallway, glancing into the little laundry room on their left and the tiny bathroom on their right. Both were empty. Dean and Monica had to be in the main area, either to the right in the kitchen, or to the left, where the bed sat. Sam stepped forward again, but froze a moment later.

A long, low, masculine moan drifted to them from up ahead. From the left.

Ruthie's stomach flipped inside out. Dean was alive. She wouldn't find him like Mike. But she might see something nearly as unbearable.

"You know how to get more, Dean." Monica sounded irritated. "You know what you have to do. C'mon. It'll be fun."

Another tormented moan.

A sigh. "I wish you wouldn't do this to yourself. You're just delaying the inevitable. Pretty soon you won't be able to stand it anymore. You'll do anything I say."

Sam held up his hand toward Ruthie and lifted a finger. She readied her gun. Two. Three. They rushed forward together. Dean sat slumped in the armchair beside the potbelly stove, still fully clothed, his head in his hands. Monica lounged on the bed. Ruthie recognized the silky blue teddy she wore. Both their heads snapped toward Sam and Ruthie as they burst in.

Dean's pale face fell; his brows pulled up and together. “Ruthie? ” His voice was dry and hoarse.

Monica sat up, cross-legged. "Hey, guys. We weren't expecting company." She gestured at the blue nightgown, a wide smile stretching her lips. "I borrowed some pjs, Ruthie. Just like old times." Her eyes fell to the knife in Sam's hand, then darted to the bandana around Ruthie's arm. Her smile faltered. "Oh. Not a friendly visit, I see." She repaired her grin and directed it at Dean. "Dean, your brother and girlfriend are here to kill me. But you need me alive, don't you, sweetie?"

A sheen of sweat shone on Dean's waxy skin; a grimace twisted his mouth. He reminded Ruthie of patients who had fought lengthy battles with debilitating illness. His head bent forward, but he still focused on Ruthie, and the look in his eyes…

A wave of déja vu swept over her, so strong she swayed on her feet. She'd seen that look before, but not from him. From Mike, outside the funeral home. The same remorse. The same self-loathing.

Every impulse screamed at her to go to him, to comfort him, to get him out of here. But she was Sam's backup. She tore her eyes away from Dean's and leveled the gun at Monica.

Sam took two smooth steps forward, putting himself between the bed and Dean's chair. He kept his gaze fixed on Monica. "You're going to be fine, Dean."

Monica unfolded her legs and stood up on the bed, her eyebrows rising along with her. She took a step closer, looking down at Sam. "You sure about that? Going cold turkey is awfully hard on the system. People have died from it."

"He's going to be fine," Sam repeated in a firmer tone.

Monica smirked at him. Her bright green eyes jumped to Ruthie. They glinted under the ceiling light. "Ruthie knows I'm right. She's seen what happens when junkies go without a hit for too long. Haven't you, Tru? It's ugly. Scary, even.” She turned back to Sam. "Not something you want to see Dean go thr—"

Sam’s arm whipped forward. He glared at her a moment longer, then let go of the knife and stepped back. Monica stood there on the edge of the bed, peering down at her chest and the leather-wrapped grip sticking out of it.

Ruthie, Sam, and Dean all stared at her; shallow breaths were the only sounds in the little cabin. For a second, nothing happened. Then Monica slowly raised her face to Sam. Her smooth skin wrinkled into an affronted scowl. "It's really rude to stab someone while they're talking to you." She grasped the handle and slowly pulled the bloodstained knife out of her body. She turned it over a few times, examining it, then tossed it aside. It flew past Ruthie's head and clattered along the floor into the little hallway.

Monica put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to the side. "Now what, guys?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ducks, runs for cover, peeks out.* Okay, now you can comment/throw things at me.


	18. Chapter 18

Ruthie had doubted Sam at first, but his confidence had started to convince her. She'd begun to hope. He did know Dean best, after all. She'd expected Monica to vanish in a puff of smoke, or dissolve into green slime, or at least fall onto the bed and twitch. Instead, the knife coated in Ruthie's blood had had as much effect as a paper cut. 

Incontrovertible proof. Dean didn't love her. 

She should have been forming a plan, pumping Monica full of bullets, getting Dean out of there, _something_. But the weight of that realization, the finality of it, closed in on her. Half-set cement oozed around her, held her in place. Her hopes, so recently set afloat, sank beneath the thick sludge.

The proof he didn't love her shone a spotlight on her own heart. What had driven her into that lumber mill last year? What had given her the strength to forgive him for Reeds Spring? Why was her heart shattering right now from the pain and guilt marring his face?

If only the requirement had been for the lifeblood of the person who loved the victim. Then Monica would be dead. It would all be over. 

Monica's voice broke through the cement. "Well, you two really messed up my night. Time for Plan B." Her lips curled back, and she hurled herself at Sam.

A blur of blue silk knocked him backwards. His head smashed into the wall. He crashed to the floor and lay there, looking dazed, while she crouched over him and opened her mouth. Her pink tongue emerged, a long, thin spike sprouting from its tip. She leaned over Sam, aiming for his throat. 

_No. Not Sam, too._

Ruthie fired two shots into Monica's side. Two black holes appeared in the nightgown, and Monica staggered sideways. Her head whipped toward Ruthie with a hiss. She straightened up and came at Ruthie with slow, deliberate steps. Ruthie backed away, firing. She was halfway into the kitchen when the revolver clicked—she was empty. Monica kept advancing despite the dark bullet holes now dotting her torso. She glanced down at the bandana tied around Ruthie's left arm. 

"You were wrong," she said, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. Her arm flashed out, backhanding Ruthie across the face. 

The blow wrenched Ruthie's head to the side and launched her backwards through the air. She smashed into the fridge and landed in a heap on the floor. Her pulse throbbed in her mouth; blood spattered the front of her shirt. 

"Do yourself a favor and stay there," Monica said. "Let the grown-ups handle this. I'll deal with you later."

She didn't see Sam behind her. She turned, and he punched her square in the face. Her head snapped back; she caught her balance with a backward step, and threw herself at him. They fell to the floor near the foot of the bed, rolling, grunting, swinging. 

Just beyond them, Dean pushed himself up from the chair and swayed, squinting at them as though he couldn't quite make out what was happening. He stepped forward, reaching down as though he wanted to help, then bent double and clutched his head in his hands, grimacing. 

Dean wasn't going to be able to help Sam. Ruthie was his only backup. And she was no physical match for a monster. She still sat slumped against the refrigerator. Her mouth throbbed; warm wetness slid down her chin. 

Something was pressing into her lower back. She reached behind her and folded her hand around soft leather. The notebook. She yanked it out and opened it, flipped through the handwritten pages, searching for something, anything. 

A crash from the other side of the kitchen bar made her jolt. One of them must have hit the other with the lamp from beside the bed. Monica snarled; Sam let out an _oof_. Dean stepped forward again, but his legs gave way and he crumpled beside the bed. On his knees, he squeezed his head tighter and groaned. 

Ruthie scanned a page per second, searching for alternative weapons, weak spots, anything to slow down or incapacitate a kounoúpi. The Greek letters blurred together. Maybe she should turn on the oven, open its door, tell Sam to grab Dean and run. Stay behind with the lighter and end this. Or at least buy them time to escape.

Then, a page with a sketch of a stone knife. She sat up straighter, skimming the words and their translations. "Lifeblood of the beloved," she saw scribbled beneath a Greek phrase. She paused. Something wasn't right, something she couldn't put her finger on at first. She scrutinized the Greek above the translation.

το αίμα της καρδιάς του αγαπημένου

She recognized two of the words. The second, aíma, meant blood. And the fourth, kardiás. She stared at it, her pulse pounding harder through her split lip. She didn't have to be a nurse to know that one. One crucial little word had been lost in translation. 

_Kardiá_. Heart.

Not lifeblood. 

Heart's blood.

The kitchen faucet rattled from the impact of two bodies slamming into the other side of the bar. Ruthie slid the notebook aside and crawled forward, toward the hallway on her left. A flash of blonde hair and blue fabric went flying over the bed. Monica crashed into the wall and landed on the mattress. She rolled out of the bounce and sprang right back at Sam. She pounced onto his back, pointing her thorned tongue at his neck. He spun around, knocking them both into the big window with a bang, loosening her hold enough to tear her off of him. 

Ruthie leapt to her feet and ran around the corner into the tiny hallway, ducking into the laundry room as Monica let out a banshee screech; Sam, a yell of pain. She opened the cabinet above the ancient washing machine and yanked out a big red plastic case. It thudded down onto the washer; she snapped up the latches and threw open the lid. Rolls of gauze and adhesive bandages went flying as she dug through the kit. She shoved aside a bottle of iodine and fished through several wrapped syringes, grabbing the largest one. A handful of suture packets clattered onto the floor; her stash of needles lay beneath them. She chose the biggest, longest one.

She ought to scrub up, but from the racket in the next room, she feared there wasn't time. She settled for snapping on a pair of latex gloves before tearing open the needle and syringe packages. Shaking fingers fitted the needle into the big, 10cc syringe. Not until she had undone the top three buttons of her shirt did she pause to think.

What if the original Greek had been mistaken, as well as the translation? What if she wasn't the right person? In either case, she was about to stick a needle into her heart for nothing.

Another crash shook the cabin. Dean let out another groan, louder this time.

That second sound made up her mind. Ruthie closed her eyes and pictured the pages from her anatomy textbook as well as she could remember. Sternum, ribcage, and beneath them, the heart. Tough muscle containing four chambers. She'd have to draw the blood from one of them, while avoiding five different arteries, not to mention pulmonary veins. The muscle would close pretty well around a needle puncture, she figured, but if she nicked an artery...

She slid to the floor, bracing her back against the washer. Her heart objected to her plans, pumping as though it were trying to run away. She pulled her shirt aside with her left hand and readied the needle with her right. Set the tip against her skin, just to the left of her sternum. One more slow breath. _Just a pinch._ Then she pushed. 

At first, it was just a pinch. She kept pushing, steadily guiding the needle toward its target. Pain like a signal flare lit up the path it traveled. 

_Left ventricle. Between ribs three and four. Don't hit the interventricular artery._

Her clinical self-talk battled against a second, shrill, increasingly panicked voice in her head. _You're not a surgeon. You can't see what you're doing. You're going to kill yourself. It hurts; oh God, just stop. Stop!_

The needle stopped. It had hit resistance. Something tough, something moving. The syringe pulsated in her fingers, out and in, to the erratic rhythm beating in her chest. 

Ruthie swallowed hard, tightened her grip on the plastic. Pushed into the resistance. 

The hot red signal flare raced on electric impulses to her brain, showering sparks and fire along the way. Her hand received its orders, and stopped. It acted on its own, just as if she'd touched a hot stove. She glared down at it. Her teeth made a grinding noise; her chest rose and fell in a rapid, shallow cadence. 

She leaned her head back against the metal behind her. Closed her eyes. Thought of Brandon's smile and Amy's tears. Of Mike, who'd never stopped loving her. 

She saw Dean. A rapid-fire montage: half frozen in the snow, cross-eyed over her cookies, helping her up from the kitchen floor. Standing in the garage, soaked, bubbles streaming down his face, a tiny half-smile cracking his scowl. Fevered and shivering in the bathtub, eyes rolling back in his head. Pulling her in to his side, his hand warm and protective on her back. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes. 

She lifted her head, gritted her teeth. Gripped the syringe with both hands, and forced it deeper inside. The tip of the needle became the epicenter of her awareness, a pinpoint of white hot flame. She felt every millimeter of its progress. Shock waves of pain erupted from it, one after the other, surging out from her chest, reverberating through her entire body. Echoes of one wave collided with the next, the maelstrom turning her mind black, drowning out all other thought. 

The resistance gave way. The needle slid to a stop. She let go just before a spasm racked her body. 

Ruthie opened her eyes, panting, gasping for breath. Her legs shook; her hands trembled. More bangs and screeching from the other side of the thin wall: Sam was still fighting. She steadied the syringe with her left hand, took hold of the plunger with her right. Slowly pulled. 

Blood, bright red, straight from the source, spilled into the plastic tube. She kept pulling. She had to get enough to coat the blade with this draw—she wouldn't be able to do this a second time. Four ccs. Five. Each heartbeat detonated a fresh charge of pain, the muscle loudly protesting the foreign object embedded inside it. Her skin grew slick with cold sweat. Six. Seven. She seemed to levitate an inch off the floor; her head came unmoored from her body, like a hot air balloon lifting off from the ground. She wondered absently how much blood she'd lost in the past fifteen minutes. Eight. Nine. Her gums and fingertips buzzed with a pins-and-needles sensation. Her knees were still shaking. 

The plunger stopped, fully extended. Ten ccs. The buzzing spread; she pulled on the syringe with a vibrating hand. Inch by inch, the needle reappeared. When the tip emerged, she exhaled; her body sagged. Blood trickled from the puncture in her skin. She tried to remove the needle from the syringe, but her hands were shaking too badly. _Slow breaths. Give it a minute._ Syringe in hand, she crawled to the hallway. There, on the floor against the opposite wall lay the knife. She made herself keep moving on wobbly limbs until she reached it, hoping Monica was so busy with Sam she wouldn’t notice. Ruthie sat with her back to the wall and started twisting the needle off the syringe.

A wall-rattling clang snapped her attention up into the main room. Sam ricocheted off the potbelly stove and toppled to the ground. Only his head connecting with the iron stove could have made that noise. He stayed on the floor. 

Just feet away from Sam, Dean lay on the floor, too, shivering violently. 

Ruthie finally managed to twist off the needle. She picked up the knife and began depressing the plunger, squirting a new layer of hot blood over the blade.

Monica came into view from behind the bar, panting, advancing on Sam with a fierce, feral expression.

"No." Dean's voice—a weak, gravelly shadow of it.

Monica paused and looked at Dean. "Oh, you poor thing. You need me, don't you?" She crossed her arms and sighed. "Well, you're not going to knock me up in that condition. Fine. But only a little. You know what you have to do to get more." She crouched over him, bent lower until their faces were side by side. Dean's shivers ceased; he went very still, his eyes glassy. 

Ruthie didn't watch any more. She pushed the plunger in steadily, turning the knife, coating every inch. Her lap, her shirt, the floor beside her, all were covered in blood. She looked like a murder victim. Like she'd been stabbed in the heart. She had no way to know whether she'd hit an artery or not. She might be bleeding to death internally. Time would tell. A very short amount of time. She needed to finish this quickly. Although, she'd been counting on getting the knife to Sam, not taking on Monica herself. She'd have to surprise her from behind.

The syringe emptied, dripping onto the stone. She turned the blade again; it looked pretty well coated. She pushed herself to her feet and leaned against the wall to keep from falling down. The floor swam beneath her feet like quicksand; she swayed and steadied herself with a hand on the wall. 

"Ruthie? What are you doing?" Monica still crouched over Dean, but had twisted her head around toward Ruthie. She spotted the knife. Her gaze slid over Ruthie's open shirt, the little red hole trickling blood. Her eyes narrowed; her face hardened. She stood and took a step forward. "You don't look so good, Tru. How long do you think you have? Two minutes? Three?" She kept coming. 

Sam stirred, just before Monica blocked him from sight. 

"What are you planning to do, Ruthie?" She gestured at the dripping knife. "Kill me?" She shook her head. "You're not a killer." A smirk. "Anyway, you're too weak. Literally and metaphorically." She closed in, just out of arm's reach.

Ruthie tightened her grip on the handle, but her hand was so feeble. She tucked her elbow in to her side, pointing the blade at Monica's chest. If she'd just come a little closer...

A flesh-toned flash, a tug, and Monica was in her face, holding the knife up between them. She rolled it back and forth in her hand, watching the blood slide to the edge, then flipping the blade before it could drip to the floor. "Heart's blood. Kudos. That takes commitment. But are you sure about the 'beloved' part?"

Ruthie flinched. No, she wasn't sure. But she had to try. For Dean, she had to try. She shrank back against the wall, cursing herself for being so fragile, for not moving faster. 

Monica pointed at Ruthie with the knife. "I was going to leave you and Sam alone. But you two tried to kill me. So this is self-defense." She touched the tip of the blade to Ruthie's cheek. A slow, chilling smile filled her face. She dropped the knife. It hit the floor with a sticky clatter. "My mom warned me not to drain people dry. Said it would draw too much attention, get me in trouble. But you have no idea how good it feels." She gestured at herself. "Did you know I can stay like this forever? My mom, she looks exactly the same as when I was five. Seven billion fountains of youth, just walking around, ours for the drinking." She tilted her head to one side, eyeing Ruthie's neck. "So. I'm going to binge on your energy—what's left of it. Then Sam's. I'm going to keep Dean here until I'm sure I'm pregnant. Then I'll drain him to the last drop. I'm gonna make lots of little mini-mes. Get us off the endangered species list." 

She took another step closer. Ruthie pressed her back against the wall. She'd have to dive for the knife, spin around, and hope to hit Monica with it. She knew it was impossible; even if she weren't weakened by blood loss, the kounoúpi was too fast. But she had to try. 

"Thanks again for Dean," Monica purred. "Bye, Tru."

In that moment, as Monica's thin lips parted and her pointed tongue aimed at Ruthie's throat, one thought dominated her mind: she didn't want to die without knowing if it would have worked. She tensed her muscles, screwed up her courage—

A wet _squelch_. Monica's eyes flew wide open. Together, she and Ruthie looked down. A bright red triangle of stone sprouted from the center of her chest. 

She raised stunned green eyes to Ruthie. They split, then split again, like dividing cells. Faster and faster, until each bulging eye was made up of hundreds of tiny ones, like an insect's. She sucked in one ragged breath, spiked tongue lolling. Then she dropped to the floor, twitching for a second before she stilled, face up, staring dead-eyed at the ceiling.

Ruthie slumped against the wall. She couldn't tear her gaze away from those eyes, or the bloodied knife tip protruding through stained silk. 

It had worked. Sam was right. 

A warmth radiated from within her, from the deepest spot the needle had reached. It was either the new knowledge she possessed, or else her chest cavity was filling with blood. 

She didn't want to die, certainly not now, not with everything she wanted just within her grasp. Still, it was a better way to go than having her life force hoovered out by a mosquito monster. She shuddered. If Sam hadn't gotten to her in time...

"Sam," she began, lifting her face to him.

It wasn't Sam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are we feeling now? Relieved? Vindicated? Worried about Ruthie? Tell me everything, loveys. I'm here for you.


	19. Chapter 19

Deep furrows lined Dean's forehead. He was still pale, but the tremors had gone. His narrowed green eyes studied the empty syringe by her feet, then skimmed over her bandana-tied arm, her bloodied clothes and skin, her undone buttons, and the telltale needle mark. The furrows multiplied. "She said heart's blood," he said. "What did she mean?"

He didn't know. He knew nothing about the notebook or the requirement for killing a kounoúpi. He didn't realize what Monica's death meant, much less that Ruthie knew. Sam had said Dean hadn't even admitted it to himself. She found it difficult to maintain eye contact with him. She felt guilty, as though she'd found a journal of his most private thoughts and feelings, and read it without permission. 

Ignoring his question, she took a step toward him on legs like liquid lead. "Are you okay? You looked awful..."

She reached for him, but he flinched back. He lowered his face, angling away from her. His whole demeanor mimicked Mike's body language in the parking lot. Shame. Guilt. Remorse.

"Dean, she's been injecting you with an addictive toxin. This isn't your fault."

A low groan came from behind Dean. They turned to see Sam sitting up, holding the back of his head. He scanned the room and spotted Monica on the floor at their feet. His eyes widened. He got to his feet and stumbled over to stand beside Dean. He stared down at the bug-eyed body, then looked at Ruthie. He opened his mouth, then saw her chest and froze. 

She started buttoning up her shirt with shaky fingers.

Sam's brows squeezed together. "What happened?"

"That's what I wanna know," Dean said.

They both looked at Ruthie, waiting. 

Any adrenaline she'd used had worn off. She swayed, legs trembling again. “I…need to sit down." She started for the chair, but her knees gave way.

"Hey, whoa." Dean caught her, his guilt apparently no match for his chivalry. He put her arm around his shoulders, and took her to the bed. He helped her sit on the edge, then took a knee in front of her. 

Sam stood beside him, both their faces etched with concern. 

She didn't know how much to say. She didn't want to embarrass Dean, to out him to himself.

Dean spoke first. "She said you had two or three minutes. What was she talking about?"

The whites of Sam's eyes grew bigger. 

Ruthie hurried to reassure them. "She was wrong. It's been at least four minutes, don't you think?"

They didn't look reassured at all. 

"She thought I might have nicked an artery. If I did, then yeah, I'd have minutes. I do feel pretty lightheaded, but that’s probably just from the blood loss. If I'm still conscious five minutes from now, we can assume I'm out of the woods."

They both stared at her. Dean turned to Sam. "What the hell is she talking about?" 

Sam glanced at Ruthie, his jaw working. Apparently he was having the same dilemma she was. "Monica was a kounoúpi. I met a hunter who told me about them. He gave me a stone knife, too. That's what you need to kill them. But it's got to be dipped in blood." Sam stopped, eyes flicking between Ruthie and his brother.

Dean waited, but Sam didn't say any more. Dean's already glowering face darkened. "So you made Ruthie do it? What the hell's wrong with you?"

Sam tried to respond, but Dean kept going. "And if it just needed to be dipped in blood, why didn't it work the first time?"

Sam's shoulders rose along with his eyebrows; he looked to Ruthie, and Dean followed suit. 

She directed her answer to Sam—looking Dean in the eye sent both pangs of guilt and nervous butterflies flitting through her stomach. "The translation was wrong. It wasn't 'lifeblood.' The original said 'heart's blood.'" She gave him a weak smile. "Lucky for us I kept a little treasure chest of supplies here, and a big enough syringe."

The brothers stared at her. Finally, Sam spoke. "You know Greek?"

Dean's scowl had transformed into an expression of undisguised horror. "You stuck a needle in your _heart?_ "

She answered them both with a small nod. 

Dean stood with a huff and turned his back on them, raking both hands through his hair. Ruthie and Sam exchanged a glance. 

Hands on his head, Dean stood with his face bowed to the floor. Then he spun around, red-faced, eyes blazing. He jabbed a finger at Sam. "Why'd you bring her here? Why'd you drag her back into this? She got out. I _got_ her out, so she wouldn't get hurt anymore. And now…” He waved a hand incoherently at Ruthie, and the blood all over her front. "And you!" he shouted at her. "Is that what they teach you in nursing school? That it's no big deal to stab yourself in your vital organs? And now, what, we're just supposed to sit here waiting to see if you die from it?" A tendon strained from his neck. "You weren't supposed to be here!" His voice fractured.

The cabin rang with his accusations. Then heavy silence filled the space between them. Sam's eyes fell to the floor. 

Ruthie met Dean's gaze, his eyes wide and damp beneath his knitted forehead. She spoke quietly. "You always act so angry when you're scared."

His brows jumped; he fell back half a step. As if he'd seen a ghost. 

Her belly twinged with guilt again for using those words: the same ones she'd said to him the last time he feared she was dying. But not enough to make her take them back. If they reminded him of a time he'd been willing to do anything to break down the barrier between them, they were worth it. 

Besides, she was pretty sure that if she had hit an artery she'd be dead by now. 

Sam peered at her from his still-bowed head, darting glances at Dean. 

Dean noticed. He rubbed at a spot behind his ear, the spot Monica had leaned toward. "I got ten minutes, tops, before this wears off and I go fetal again." He threw an open hand in Ruthie's direction. "And apparently she might have less. So whatever you two aren't telling me, spit it out. And make it fast."

Ruthie looked to Sam. He shifted his feet.

"Talk!" Dean shouted.

"Where are we supposed to start, Dean?" Ruthie snapped. She knew it was his guilt and fear talking, but still, she was done being yelled at. "A lot has happened since the last time I saw you."

He flinched. The last time she saw him, he'd said he wanted her gone.

"Mike's dead," Sam said.

Dean's eyes jumped to his brother. 

"He's the one who picked Ruthie up last night. Monica killed him. Ruthie found him just before we came here."

Dean stared at him. He swallowed hard. "I didn't know," he rasped. His eyes traveled to Ruthie's knees, but couldn't seem to rise any higher. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." She gave Sam a thankful tip of her head. Telling Dean about Mike had gotten them off the hook, at least for the moment. She took a big breath and blew it out. "Now. If you only have a few minutes of usefulness left, I want you two to get that thing out of my house." She pointed at Monica's body on the floor. 

Now Dean's eyes snapped to her face. "I'm not going anywhere until we know you're okay."

She waved a dismissive hand at him. "I'm fine. I'm already feeling better. Go clean up your mess." She sighed and crossed her arms. "Can't I ever have you two over without you racking up a body count?"

Dean stared for a second before looking to Sam, whose lips twitched. They gave each other matching little shrugs, and went to work. As soon as they were out the door, Ruthie tried standing up again. Her head was still a bit woozy, but she could walk. She turned down the covers and stacked the pillows. Then she went to the laundry room and scavenged everything from the kit that might be useful, storing them all in the bedside table. Next she raided the kitchen, taking inventory and setting up a stash of supplies along the wall under the big window.

Sure enough, when the brothers returned ten minutes later, Dean's skin was ashen. 

But he stopped at the end of the kitchen bar, examining her. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay."

He exhaled, then went straight to the sink and drank from the faucet, guzzling water like a man dying of thirst. He finally turned off the tap and hunched over the sink, gripping the edge of the countertop. "You two should go," he said in a low voice. 

"That's not happening," Sam said.

"I just have to get through this," Dean insisted. "There's nothing you can do."

"That's not true," Ruthie told him. "I won't lie; this is going to be hard. You're going to be very sick. But I can help."

He shook his head, staring down into the sink. His skin shone with sweat beneath the kitchen light. "I don't want—" A tremor shook him. "I don't want you to see..."

"Sam," she said softly. "Help him into bed."

Dean leaned on Sam for the short trip to the bed, and collapsed onto it as soon as they arrived. He'd already turned slightly green. "I think I drank too much," he croaked.

Ruthie had a big plastic bowl ready. 

Afterward, he fell back onto the pillows, panting, beads of perspiration lining his upper lip. His eyes stayed closed. "Please. Just go."

Ruthie held a straw to his lips. "Here. Take a sip. Rinse your mouth out." 

He obeyed, spitting into the bowl. She handed it to Sam without a word, and he disappeared into the bathroom. She took a damp cloth and sponged Dean's forehead, his cheeks, his neck. 

At first, his whole body relaxed; his tremors abated. Then his eyes fluttered open. He looked at her for only a second before they squeezed shut again. His jaw clenched tight; his muscles tensed. He wrenched away, putting his back to her. "I told you to get out of here."

She absorbed his anger, didn’t react. He was sick and irritable, and guilt-ridden over Monica and the things he’d said outside the bathroom door. Because he loved her. She set the cloth on the little table and met Sam on his way out of the bathroom. "Can you help him get undressed? He's going to be in bed for a while. Jeans won't be comfortable." She took the empty bowl from him and put it in the kitchen sink. Then she turned her back to the bed to give Dean at least a little privacy while she scribbled out a supply list. 

When Sam had finished and Dean was tucked in, Sam joined her in the kitchen, his face drawn and anxious. "He doesn't look good."

"Here." She handed him the list. "I need you to go into town and get a few things."

He blinked down at the paper, then looked back at her. "Are you sure you'll be okay? I mean, will _he_ be okay?"

She put a hand on his arm. "Sam. This is my job. I'll take care of him."

He met her gaze, gave her a single nod, and left.

Ruthie returned to Dean’s side. "The most important thing is for us to keep you hydrated. I'm going to give you a saline IV." 

He didn't say anything. She hung a bag of saline from a little hook she'd installed in the wall beside the bed when her dad was sick. Then she wiped the back of Dean's left hand with an alcohol swab. "A little pinch," she said. 

He ignored her, kept his back to her, but at least he didn't pull his hand away. She taped the cannula in place and set the drip. When the IV was all set, she cleared up the empty packaging and switched off the light. "Try to get some rest."

No response.

She went to the sink and washed out the bowl so it would be ready for next time. Then she grabbed a spray bottle and rags and got to work on her hands and knees, cleaning up the blood stains from the floor. Might as well get it done before she changed out of her bloodied clothes.

Scrubbing the floor took the better part of an hour. Her knees and arms ached as she stood to check on Dean. He'd been tossing in bed the whole time, and his face seemed frozen in a grimace of discomfort. She washed her hands, then went to the bed and laid her palm over his forehead. Heat radiated from his skin. He jerked back from her hand. She dunked the cloth into a bowl of water on the nightstand, wrung it out, and laid it across his brow. 

She hurried to the bathroom, stripped off her ruined clothes, and stuffed them in the trash can. She rushed through a shower, though all she wanted was to stand there under the hot spray for hours. The gash in her arm needed bandaging, but she left the tiny puncture in her chest alone. After toweling off her hair and throwing on some leggings and a soft t-shirt, she went back to Dean. 

The damp cloth lay rumpled on the floor; he'd kicked off the covers. Now he lay curled up on his side, arms hugging his core, quaking with violent shivers. She pulled the sheet and blanket over him, tucked them in around his shoulders. His skin felt cool and clammy. 

She'd seen bad withdrawal symptoms before, but never so severe, nor so quickly. She breathed a grateful prayer for the bags of saline left in the house. On her knees, she dug under the bed for an extra afghan, and threw it over top of the blanket. She settled into the armchair to keep an eye on him. 

Ten minutes later, though, Dean was shaking harder than ever, practically convulsing, as though he were lying exposed in an Arctic ice storm. The headboard rattled against the wall. A quivering whimper rose from the huddled blankets. 

That sound, the pain and exhaustion it gave voice to, felt like another needle in her heart. She went to the bed, pulled back the covers, and slipped in beside him. He still lay curled up with his back to her. She tucked herself around him as best she could, her chest against his back, her leg draped over his. She wrapped her right arm around him, and pulled the blankets over them. Her hand found his. She twined her fingers through his to help warm them, but also hoping he'd sense, subconsciously, that he wasn't alone.

At first, the intensity of his tremors made her jitter all over. But as her body heat seeped into him, the shivering slowed. A brief pause, then another burst of shaking. Eventually, the pauses came more frequently; the tremors subsided. His rigid muscles slowly released their tension. Finally, he let out a long, shuddering breath, and lay still. 

Typical. He'd only let her help him when he was unconscious.

She held him, staying as quiet and immobile as she could. He'd have a terrible time sleeping the next couple days; any undisturbed rest was precious. With her cheek pressed against his back, her face rose and fell with his breathing. In this quiet moment, her thoughts finally had time to spread out. 

After Reeds Spring, Dean had let his guilt drive him away from her. What would he do this time? Monica's death proved he loved her, but it didn't mean he'd change. It didn't mean he'd suddenly decide they should be together, get down on one knee, take her back to the bunker to play house. No, knowing Dean, he'd just push her further away. Look at Lisa. When she was badly hurt by a demon, he had Cas wipe her memory, and never spoke of her again. 

Ruthie shuddered. This line of thinking wasn't helpful. The next couple days would be hard enough without torturing herself wondering what Dean would do. First things first: getting him well. She closed her eyes and tried to relax. Might as well rest while she had the chance. 

She let out a long breath, ignoring the pricking pain of her puncture wound, and pretended, for just a moment, that they were back at home. That she was lying with him not as a human heating pad, but because he wanted her there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this was a bit of a breather after the previous chapter. Any favorite moments? Any new predictions? Concerns? Is Dean behaving more or less how you expected? Tell me!


	20. Chapter 20

The pain never let up. Bone deep, unrelenting, wish-you-were-dead pain. It grabbed hold of him, clamped down tight, shook him like a dog shaking a rat. The all-consuming ache even leaked into his fevered dreams. 

He couldn't remember where he was or why this was happening, but he knew he deserved it. He'd managed to hold on to that fact. Something to do with Ruthie. He'd hurt her. Again. 

Day and night blurred together. Time stretched out, meaningless, nothing but a vehicle for his suffering. Broken only by glimpses of Ruthie: bending over him, cooling his face, warming his hands, murmuring soothing words. Sam hovering behind her, looking strained. 

"The sheets are drenched." 

Sam's arms under him, lifting him off the bed. A rustling noise. 

"The fever's broken. This is good, Sam." She sounded so tired.

Sam lowering him back onto the bed. Clean, dry sheets. He sprawled on them, arms outstretched and…not rigid. Not racked with tremors. The pain now simmered at only a dull throb. He might have cried in relief if he weren't so exhausted. He slipped into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Low voices, to his right. 

"You've barely slept in three days. You need rest." 

"Trust me, I'll hibernate when this is over. I want to be here when he wakes up. I'll need to check his vitals." Her voice sounded thin and drained.

_Drained_. 

Brandon Reeves' life-drained body, the little pinches behind his ear, the bloody, empty syringe on the floor. Monica smiling as she stretched up toward him. The little red hole over Ruthie’s heart. He wished the cloud of pain fogging his mind would come back. The memories were worse. He'd betrayed her, again. Hurt her, again. She could have died because of him. Again. God, what was she still doing here? Didn't she ever learn?

He wanted to keep pretending to sleep, so he wouldn't have to face her. But his throat screamed for water; it was so dry he couldn't even swallow. 

"You two look like hell," he rasped.

It was true. They were both pale and drawn, with dark circles under their eyes. Especially Ruthie. But their faces lit up when he spoke. 

"Hey!" Sam came to stand beside him. "How do you feel?"

"Like a truck hit me. Then backed up and ran me over again."

A ripping noise, then Ruthie velcroed a blood pressure cuff around his left arm. He kept his eyes on Sam. 

"Water."

Sam grabbed a cup from the side table and put a curved straw to Dean's mouth. He sipped slowly at first, then as fast as he could. 

"Take it easy," Ruthie warned. "Here." She held a thermometer in front of his lips.

He waved it away. "I'm fine."

"Humor me."

He still didn't look at her. He opened up, just to get it over with. 

She slid the thermometer under his tongue. "Your pulse and blood pressure are good," she said in a tired but cheerful tone. "You went through every bag of saline I had, so I'm really glad you're coming out of it."

She paused, but he didn't respond. "I have some chicken broth ready to heat up if you feel hungry. The kind I made last time we were here. Remember?"

He kept his mouth closed around the thermometer, and didn't look at her. 

She took the thermometer and checked it. "Ninety-eight point eight," she announced, sounding relieved. He ignored her. 

“Okay.” Her voice faltered. "I guess I'll, uh, go check the dryer."

Sam gave her a small smile as she left the room. When she was gone, he looked down at the bed for a minute, then spoke in a low voice. "Dean, she has done nothing but take care of you for three days. No sleep, barely any food. Just changing the IV, and checking your pulse, and getting meds down you, and cleaning up puke, and…” His face dropped lower; he wiped a hand over it. "I'm glad you're better, okay? You have no idea. But if you treat her like crap, _now_ , after—"

"After what, Sam?" He glared at his brother, daring him to say it. He wanted someone besides himself, for once, to admit that he had screwed up. That what he'd done was unforgivable. 

Sam's gaze jumped to the hallway entrance, the spot where Dean had ended Monica. "After—"Then he shook his head and put his hands up. "You know what, let's not do this right now. We're glad you're better. Are you hungry?"

He was starving. "I'm fine. When are we getting out of here?"

"Once you're rested up."

"Great." Dean pushed himself upright. "Let's go."

"Dean, hang on, you're not—"

"I'm not spending another damn minute in this bed." He swung his legs over the side. "Where are my clothes?"

"Here." Ruthie emerged from the hallway with an armload of laundry, eyes downcast. She dropped them on the end of the bed. 

"Should he be getting up?" Sam asked.

She didn't raise her eyes. "If he feels up to it. Just stay close to him. He may be off balance at first." She turned and headed back for the hallway. "I'll let you get dressed."

Sam watched her go. When he turned back to Dean, his mouth was tight. "You could at least tell her 'thank you.'"

"Will do. Let's get outta here."

The cabin's walls were shrinking, closing in on him. Everywhere he looked, he saw Ruthie. Stirring a pot at the stove, adding wood to the fire, pulling pie from the oven. Being tossed across the kitchen by a werewolf. Backhanded by Monica. Covered in blood, a gash in her arm, a tiny hole in her chest. Because of him. He needed to get out of here, to clear his head. 

Once he was dressed, he practiced standing and walking on his own while Sam and Ruthie cleaned the place up. He found a granola bar in a kitchen cabinet and ate it while they weren't looking. 

"I think that's it," Ruthie said, leaning against the wall in the hallway, looking half dead from exhaustion. "We can go. But I won't be driving. I could fall asleep standing up."

"And I need to return Buck's pickup," Sam said. "Are you good to drive, Dean?"

"I'm good."

"Okay. Ruthie can ride with you."

He was out the door before Dean could think of a good excuse why she shouldn't. 

She stayed quiet for the first twenty minutes of the drive, curled up in the passenger seat, leaning against the window. He assumed she was asleep. Her quiet, tremulous voice startled him.

"Please don't push me away."

Was she talking in her sleep? 

"I know you blame yourself. You always do."

Not asleep, then. He shifted in his seat, wishing he'd tried harder to get her to ride in the truck with Sam. 

She straightened up and faced him, fixing him with her big, dark eyes. "But this time, I want you to do something for me. I think I've earned it."

He stared ahead at the road. "Okay. What?"

"Look at me, Dean."

"That's it? Sure." He glanced over and gave her a fake smile. 

"You know what I mean."

He tossed a hand toward the windshield. "I'm driving."

"Then pull over."

"Sam won't know what we're—"

"Sam will be fine."

He blew out a breath through his nose. "Fine." Whatever she wanted, he'd just smile and nod. He turned off on the next little side road and pulled onto the grass beside a field. He plopped his hands onto his knees and turned toward her. "Okay. What?"

She winced. 

He instantly regretted his gruff tone. "Hey, uh, I meant to say thanks. For, you know, being my nurse back there."

She raised her eyes to him. They were slightly sunken, with dark shadows beneath them. Exactly how you'd expect someone who hadn't slept in three days to look. 

"Dean—" She broke off, looking down at her hands again.

He almost reached out to touch her arm. Damn it. Every time he convinced himself to keep his distance, for her own good, it lasted about twenty seconds before she drew him back in. 

She took a quick breath and faced him again. "I know you're angry, and that you want to punish yourself. I know you want to protect me. You think the best way to do that is to stay away from me. I know you." She leaned a little closer. "But what about what _I_ want?"

He stayed quiet, unsure where she was going with this, and still unnerved by her mind-reading after all this time.

"You and Sam, you're all I have. And I'm happy. But these past couple months, ever since Reeds Spring…”

He stiffened. They'd never talked about it since that day in the hospital. 

“…you’ve been different toward me. You've been shutting me out. And I don't know if it's your misplaced idea of justice, or if seeing me just reminds you what happened, or if you even know why you're doing it. But it's not fair to me, Dean."

Her voice quavered; her eyes filled. He had to focus all his willpower on his hand to stop it from reaching out and taking hers.

"I'm sorry. I'm trying not to get all emotional; I'm just so tired." She swiped at her eyes. "I forgave you, and I meant it. I forgive you for Monica. You didn't know what she was. Nobody could resist a toxin like that. Not even you. It wasn't your fault. And even if it had been, we all screw up. We all make mistakes." She leaned closer and took hold of his tense hands. She spoke low and slow, emphasizing each word. "I forgive you." She watched him for several moments, then gave his hands a squeeze. "But now I need you to do one thing for me."

He swallowed. 

"Forgive yourself. Don't let this hang over you. Don't let it poison any more of your life—our lives." Her eyes welled up again; her voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't push me away. Please."

He forced himself to keep looking at her while his guts churned. She made it sound so easy. His throat went tight and his voice came out hoarse. "That was, like, four things."

A choking laugh burst out of her. She covered her face with her hand. 

They sat there that way for a minute while she laughed, her cool hand still resting on his. 

Her laughter died away. She spoke to her lap. "I mean it Dean. The way things have been…I can't do it anymore. The other stuff? The monsters and witches and ghosts and bloodletting? I can handle all that." She raised her face to him. "But you, being so distant, never letting me in? Treating me like an acquaintance?” She shook her head. "I can't. It's too painful."

So, even when he was going out of his way not to hurt her, he had hurt her. He felt like he was cursed. Like no matter what he did or tried or changed, the outcome was inevitable. He'd never be able to stop hurting her. And the closer he let her get, the worse it would be when he did screw up. 

She didn't know what was good for her. He needed to save her from herself. 

He would fake it. He'd tell her what she wanted to hear. Toss her a vulnerable moment once in a blue moon. Enough to keep her happy. Not enough to put him in danger of messing it up. She’d stay with them, and everything would go back to normal. 

"Okay," he said. 

She raised her eyebrows. "Okay?"

He nodded. "Okay. You're right."

She sat back in her seat. "Wow. I thought you'd put up a fight."

"I can be reasonable."

"Since when?"

He gave her a smile—he hoped it looked real—and pulled back onto the road. "Get some sleep. You look like a zombie with mono."

“Gee, thanks." She curled back up by the window, giving him a suspicious side-eye for the thirty seconds it took her to fall asleep.

She was still out ninety minutes later when he pulled up behind the old green pickup along the edge of a big, tree-lined park. Sam had arranged to meet Buck at the same place again. It was late afternoon. A few thick clouds scudded across the blue sky. Dean watched him walk to a picnic table and shake hands with an old guy in a black cowboy hat. Then Sam handed over the notebook and the stone knife. 

Dean probably ought to go meet the guy, thank him for his help. He grabbed the door handle, but then Ruthie stirred. 

"Where are we?" she asked in a sleep-drugged voice.

"In Boise. Returning the truck."

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. "I should go thank him."

"You should go back to sleep."

"I will." She opened her door. "I need to stretch my legs."

He got out and waited for her to come around the car. But she didn't head toward Sam. She came to stand in front of Dean, her back to the park. So close he could smell her fruity shampoo. He’d identified the scent months ago: apples.

"Did you mean it?"

He leaned back against the car. Her x-ray look made him feel naked. "Did I mean what?"

"That you're going to forgive yourself. And stop pushing me away."

"That's what I said.” He made himself return her gaze while her eyes probed into his. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting. 

She drilled into him, layer by layer, examining each one. She had him practically pinned to the car, like a wriggling bug she was studying under a magnifying glass. The concentrated heat of her gaze burned like a laser. 

His eyes tore away, just for a second, before he forced them back.

The laser flickered. Her brows pulled up and together. Her shoulders slumped; her gaze dropped to the ground between them. 

Everything turned darker—a cloud had passed over the sun. 

When she lifted her face to him, she looked more tired than ever. As though she'd just received awful, long-expected news, the kind you get from a doctor that includes the word "terminal." Devastated, yet resigned. 

"Well," she said, "I tried.” She stepped closer, rested her hands on his chest. She looked into his eyes again, no magnifying glass this time. This look was full of firesides and candlelight and moonlit beaches. She stretched up toward him, dropped her gaze to his mouth. Her lips parted. 

At first they only brushed his, hesitant, tentative. Then more bravely, sweet and soft and insistent. 

His mouth took over, responding to hers, moving in sync. Molding itself to her kiss, returning it. He couldn't help it. From far away, his brain shouted that he was screwing up, he was breaking the rules, she was off limits. 

He ignored it. Kissing Ruthie was like the rumble of Baby's engine and the burn of good whisky and the taste of apple pie. And something else, something he didn't know how to describe because he'd never felt it before. A warm, confident peace, settling into the cracks and crevices in his heart, seeking out the broken places and filling them up. A sense that everything would be okay. That _he_ would be okay.

Her lips stilled. She stood motionless for a moment, then pulled away and let her hands slide off his chest. A mist clouded her eyes. "I needed to do that," she murmured. "Just once."

She stepped back and waved a hand vaguely behind her. "Go ahead and meet Buck. I'm going to get some more sleep." Her voice was monotone, robotic. She opened the back door and lay down across the seat. She looked small and weary. Defeated.

A chilly emptiness seeped through him, washing away every trace of the warm, peaceful feeling. What had just happened? 

He'd been stupid to think he could trick her. Hadn't he learned from day one that it was pointless to lie to her? 

And yet, if she knew he'd lied, why kiss him? 

At least he had a long trip ahead of him to think it over. And to figure out what to say to her.

Sam came striding toward him. "I can drive," he offered.

"Nah, I'm good." Dean needed the steering wheel, the open road. It helped him think.

They climbed in; he revved the engine. In the back seat, Ruthie didn't stir.

The sun stayed hidden behind the clouds. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only two chapter to go. How are we feeling, my dears?


	21. Chapter 21

"Hey there, Sleeping Beauty."

Sam's hazy grin shone down on her. Ruthie blinked her bleary eyes and tried to look around, but ended up grabbing her sore neck and moaning instead.

"I came to make sure you were alive. You've been asleep almost twenty-four hours." He set a mug of what smelled like strong coffee on the little nightstand beside her bed. 

Her bed? "We're back?"

"Yep. Drove straight through. We slept it off already."

She squinted and stretched. "Ugh, this feels like coming out of a coma."

"I bet. You were out cold. You didn't even wake up when Dean carried you in."

Dean. Oh, God. 

It all came rushing back. Her plea, the one thing she'd asked of him. And he'd lied to her. He wasn't going to forgive himself; he wasn't going to change. 

She knew what she had to do. She hadn't been being dramatic when she told him she couldn't do it anymore. Being here, being with him but not _with_ him, constantly gauging his fence—how high is it today? Will he raise it if I say this? Maybe he'll lower it a few inches if I do that?—she couldn't keep doing it. She wouldn't. It hurt too much. 

Especially now, knowing he loved her, and that it wasn't enough. His love wasn't stronger than his guilt, or his masochism, or whatever the hell was making him torture them both. 

She had no idea where she'd go, and the thought of leaving Sam—for good this time—was so painful she almost changed her mind.

"Thanks, Sam," she croaked. 

"You're welcome." On his way out, he said, "I'm making dinner. Come whenever you're ready."

"Dinner?"

He chuckled. "Yep. Welcome back."

The door clicked shut behind him. She pushed herself upright, feeling like a reanimated corpse, all achy muscles and sore joints. But that discomfort was nothing compared to the anguish in her spirit. This would be her last night in the bunker. Her last night with the Winchesters. And she still had to tell them. She should have ripped off the band-aid there at the park in Boise, told Dean to take her home to the cabin instead of letting him drive her all the way back to Kansas. But she’d been too exhausted to think clearly.

She scooted to the edge of the bed and put her feet on the floor. She stood up, one hand out on her desk for stability. Her mind cleared faster than she'd expected. A quick shower, a bite of food, the mug of coffee, and she'd be back to normal. 

Except she wouldn't, really. Nothing would be normal again.

She gave her head a shake, fighting back the heat rising behind her eyes. She grabbed a set of clothes from her dresser and headed to the bathroom. Thankfully, she didn't run into either of the guys. 

She let the hot spray pummel her longer than usual while she relived the kiss. She wasn't sure what had possessed her. Maybe she'd been half drunk with fatigue, her inhibitions crippled. Maybe she'd hoped to change him, to trigger some earth-shattering switch inside him. She had always wanted to kiss him: maybe she'd realized this was her last chance, and she had nothing left to lose. Probably a combination of all three.

Now she wished she hadn't. It had been wonderful, better than she'd imagined, tender and yearning, like whispering the things they'd left unsaid. She'd never again smell motor oil or old leather without thinking of him and that kiss by the car. Being so close, showing him how she felt, feeling him respond to her: it was a snapshot, a living sculpture of everything she wanted, of unrealized potential. Of what might have been. Now, nothing more than an exhibit in the museum of her memory.

She shoved it into a dark, dusty corner. Threw a sheet over the top of it. 

The hot water mingled with her tears.

 

* * *

 

Sam scraped the last of the scrambled eggs out of the skillet and onto a big plate. He figured breakfast for dinner might help Ruthie with her transition back to the land of the living. Poor kid. She'd run herself ragged at the cabin taking care of Dean, while insisting that Sam get rest. They'd gotten so lucky when they found her. 

He took the plate to the table and set it in front of Dean, who'd been uncharacteristically stoic on the drive. "Eat up. Ruthie ought to be in soon."

Dean didn't respond, just started filling his plate. 

Sam almost asked if he was okay, but thought better of it. How often had he gotten a straight answer to that question? Instead, he opened his laptop. "So, remember what Cas was saying about something getting out of Hell?"

"Ancient, powerful, demons freaking out."

"Yeah. So get this: a warehouse in Ohio burned to the ground a couple days ago. Except it didn't just burn like normal; it basically incinerated in under two minutes. The fire inspector couldn't find a source, and he estimates the temperature reached ten thousand degrees. That's basically unheard of. The average house fire burns at about eleven hundred degrees." 

Dean bit into a piece of toast. "Okay."

"Since then, there have been two different spontaneous combustion cases in the neighboring county. People turned to ash in seconds—ash that smells like sulfur.”

Dean shoveled in a bite of eggs. "So, some sort of demon.”

"That's what I'm thinking."

Ruthie appeared in the doorway, dressed, her hair damp. She sat down without a glance at Dean. Sam passed her the eggs. She stared at the plate as if she didn't know what to do with them. 

"Ruthie?"

She started. 

"Do you want some?"

"Oh. Yes. Thank you." She scraped a tiny serving onto her plate and stared down at it. 

Sam glanced over at Dean, who met his eyes for only a second before returning his attention to his own plate. 

Great. _Now_ what was going on with these two?

Ruthie kept scrutinizing her eggs, but at least she had picked up her fork now. She poked at them noncommittally. 

"So," Sam said, "I think we've got a lead on that thing Cas told us about."

"Oh. That's good." She didn't look up. 

He tried again. "Looks like Ohio is up next. I know we just got back, but if this is as big as Cas seemed to think, we should probably head out first thing in the morning. Are you up for it?"

She set down her fork and didn't answer for a moment. "Actually, I was wondering if you could give me a ride in the morning."

Sam paused. "Oh. Okay. Sure. Where do you need to go?"

She raised liquid brown eyes to him. "The bus station."

That got Dean's attention. His eyes jumped to her face, one tiny vein pulsing at his temple. 

Ruthie didn't seem to notice Dean. She kept talking to Sam, her voice hitching now. "I've got most of my things packed. I'll finish tonight."

Sam looked back and forth between her and Dean, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Neither of them said anything. Sam felt his blood pressure rising like a high speed elevator. "Is this a joke? Because it's not very funny."

Ruthie swallowed again. Her gaze dropped to his chest, as though she didn't have the strength to keep her eyes on his. "Dean and I are in agreement—" she broke off with a little choking sound. Her lashes fluttered like a bird with a broken wing. "We agree that it's best for me to go."

Sam gripped the edge of the table. He was tempted to flip the whole thing over, cuss the varnish off the floor, lock them in the dungeon together. This couldn't be happening again.

He looked to Dean, willing him to contradict her. Dean stared ahead at nothing now, his jaw clenched, that little vein popped out and throbbing. 

Their kitchen filled with the silence of a cemetery. A deserted battlefield. 

Ruthie pushed back her chair. It screeched across the floor, and across Sam's raw nerves. “First thing in the morning, I'll be ready. You can drop me off on your way to Ohio."

She stood up. Sam sat there, feeling helpless, like he was watching her being pulled out to sea by the current while the lifeguard beside him did nothing. 

She pushed in her chair, then held onto the back of it as though it were the only thing keeping her upright. "Sam, I'm so sorry. I—" A hiccupy gasp, then she clamped her mouth shut. Her chin quivered. She turned and fled. 

Sam tightened his grip on the table's edge, mostly because he was pretty sure if he let go, he would hit Dean. Who was still glaring at nothing, saying nothing, doing nothing. 

Sam took a couple calming breaths and forced his boiling anger down just below the surface. "Dean, don't do this."

"I'm not doing anything!" Dean roared, nearly knocking Sam over in surprise. "This is all her." His head jerked back, as though recoiling from his own words. 

Sam watched while his brother's face darkened and a muscle worked in and out at the sides of his jaw. He lowered his voice. "Whatever happened between you two, whatever is going on, fix it." He pointed at Dean. " _You_ have to fix it."

"You heard her," Dean growled. "She doesn't want to be here. She's better off away from us. Away from me."

Sam shook his head. "No. She chose us. She wanted this life. She has chosen us—no, she has chosen _you_ , over and over."

"Bad choices," Dean muttered.

"Maybe so," Sam snapped. "But they're _her_ choices. Stop trying to choose for her. Stop pushing her away."

_Wham_. Dean's fist slammed onto the table, rattling the dishes. He glared down at it, breathing hard. 

Sam didn't back off. He leaned in closer. "If you do this, if you let her go, you will regret it forever. You'll never forgive yourself." He pushed back his chair and stood up. "And neither will I."

 

* * *

 

Dean sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, massaging deep circles into his temples. 

Ruthie was leaving. First thing in the morning. 

_This is good,_ he repeated to himself, over and over, chanting it like a mantra. If she was gone, he couldn't hurt her. Not accidentally, not on purpose. She could start over, get out of this screwed up life. Everywhere needed nurses. She could go wherever she wanted to go.

_This is good._

Sam would forgive him eventually. He always did. He'd be angry for a while. Maybe a long time. But it would be just the two of them again. Sooner or later, Sam would get lonely. He'd have to talk to Dean again. Maybe even admit Ruthie was better off away from them. 

The bunker would be different without her. Not as bright or welcoming. Definitely not as clean. He would miss the food. He would really miss the pie. He would miss her laugh, and her bustling around in the kitchen, and her singing in the shower in the mornings. He'd even miss the way she and Sam always ganged up on him. 

The road would be different now, too. He wouldn't be able to glance in the rearview anymore and see her grin when he cracked a lame joke that made Sam roll his eyes. The back seat of the Impala actually smelled like her now. Apples. He wondered how long it would take to fade away. No more Dr. Pepper chapstick rolling around in the console. At motels, he wouldn't have to take turns on the pull-out couches anymore. 

_This is. . .good?_

He stopped rubbing and clasped his head between his hands. The more he tried to convince himself everything was fine, the more panic foamed up inside him. She was leaving. She was really leaving forever. 

His mind kept flashing back to their kiss, and especially that calm sense of serenity, so foreign to him. He knew in his gut that he could kiss every hot girl from here to Poughkeepsie and never get that feeling back. Because they weren't Ruthie.

She was right. She was right about everything. He'd been trying to protect her, and punish himself, and everything she'd said. And he'd never stopped to ask what _she_ wanted. He'd been too selfish, too wrapped up in his own guilt and determined to keep her safe. She'd made it clear that she wanted to stay here with them. And now she was giving it up, because of him. Because he couldn't do the one thing she asked. 

She had stuck a literal needle into her heart for him, and he wouldn't let down a metaphorical wall for her. 

He lurched to his feet and paced the little room. "Fix it," Sam had ordered. But Dean wasn't sure he even knew how. Openness and vulnerability weren't really his strong suits. How was he supposed to prove he could change and let her in? Tell her an embarrassing story about himself? She already knew them all. Cry in front of her? He could try, but that would probably just end up being embarrassing for everyone. 

This was useless. He'd just have to ask her what she wanted him to do. To spell it out, because obviously he was an idiot. At least he could try to buy some time. Talk her into staying a little longer. Convince her they'd need her help on this next job. Something.

Mind made up, he went to the door and yanked it open.

Ruthie stood there, open-mouthed, her fist raised as if she'd been about to knock. 

"Oh," she stammered. "I was just—I can't find my dad's twelve gauge. It's not at the range and Sam said he hasn’t seen it. But I just realized I can't really take it on a bus, can I? Stupid. You know what, you guys can keep it. Sorry."

She spun and tried to leave.

He caught her arm. "Ruthie, wait."

She paused, keeping her back to him, standing stiffly. She finally turned around, red-faced. "What?"

Crap. He didn't know. What was he supposed to say? He had no plan, no speech.

Her lips twisted as the seconds ticked by. She tried again to leave.

"Don't go."

"I need to finish packing."

"No, I mean…don’t go. Stay here. Stay with us." His next words ran into the specialized filter he’d installed between his brain and his mouth, to keep them and all the others like them inside, where they couldn't mess anything up.

Maybe this was what she meant.

He made his mouth form the words, made his voice push them out, even though they were gravelly. "Stay with me."

Her eyes filled. "Dean." Her voice quavered. "Don't do this."

"I'm sorry. You were right. I have been pushing you away. I didn't ask what you wanted; I was punishing myself; I didn't want to make things weird." The filter had broken, and now a swarm of words and thoughts tumbled together in his head, pouring out in random order. He wasn't sure he was making sense. He gritted his teeth.

"I tried," she said, a sharp note of despair in her tone. "I told you I needed one thing. I practically begged you. And you lied to me."

"I know. I know. I'm sorry."

"I can't do it, Dean."

"I know." He took hold of both her arms, afraid she might try to run away. "You won't have to. You hear me? You won't have to."

She shook her head slowly, full eyes glistening. "I'm too upset now. I can't tell if you're lying again."

His words weren't working. He was no good at this. He wasn't being what she wanted. Maybe he couldn't be. "I'm not lying. I'm trying to do what you said."

She pulled back against his grasp, tears trickling down her flushed cheeks. "Dean, please—”

She was trying to leave. He couldn't let her leave. 

Without thinking, he pulled her to him, covered her mouth with his. Waited for her to wrench away, for a stinging slap, but neither came. 

She froze for an instant, rigid in his arms; then she melted, like a hard winter into the first warm day of spring. Her lips softened and folded around his; her arms wrapped around his neck. He cupped her face in his hands and brushed away her tears with his thumbs. His fingers slid into her hair, wafting the familiar scent of apples over them both. She tightened her arms around his neck, pulling herself up closer, pressing against him, kissing him harder. 

The peacefulness came again, but this time, so did a sense of urgency. He held her tight with one hand, and closed the door with the other. He picked her up without dislodging her arms from his neck or interrupting her kisses, and carried her to the bed. 

He was no good with communication. Never had been. But he could show her. He could show her everything he didn't know how to say.

He spoke to her the best way he knew how: without words. And she answered him in the same language. His lips breathed wordless apologies to her throat, her shoulders; her fingers traced forgiveness into his skin. He found the small, red-centered bruise over the entrance to her heart. The only reward she'd received for her heroics. Her medal of valor. He kissed it gently. Once. Twice. His hands delivered the eloquent thanks his voice couldn't; her back arched high to receive them. 

He’d finally given in, and gone to knock on her door. And she welcomed him. After everything, she welcomed him. She invited him in. 

He accepted.

A quick gasp, a tiny cry. A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye. 

He froze. Had he hurt her? He began to pull away, but her hands caught his shoulders. She gazed up at him with shining eyes. Her body rose and fell beneath him, around him, a coaxing, hypnotic rhythm he had neither the strength nor the will to resist. She pulled him nearer, showed him how to hold her close instead of pushing her away. 

He should have known. He should have guessed long ago that the hands that so skillfully closed the wounds on his body could also heal the brokenness in his soul.

He wanted to be even closer to her, needed her to keep filling the empty places inside him. He wanted to repay her somehow, to fill her up like she was filling him. He wanted to give her everything.

She had told him what she wanted: nothing between them.

Of course. The wall he'd built. He'd tear it down for her. 

Laser-focused determination coursed through him. This wasn’t the first time he’d had to break down a barrier between them. He was a man with a single purpose: breaking down a door, smashing it to bits because she was on the other side. Because nothing mattered more than getting to her, being with her. Her lips formed a single word, murmured between gasping breaths as he fought his way through. _Dean._ Low and throaty at first, then with swelling intensity until she cried out, urging him on, calling out to him from the other side. He swung again and again; he wouldn't stop until there was nothing left to separate them, until the wall was demolished, beyond repair.

The final beam fell with a shuddering blow.

He sagged, panting with exertion and relief. The reverberations of his effort echoed and faded, the dust drifted and settled.

And she was there, breathless and trembling in his arms. Unhurt.

Nothing between them. Nothing at all. 

He fell down beside her, pulled her to his heaving chest. Held her close. 

_This._

_This is good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confession: I've never written anything like this before, and I've been nervous as heck about posting it. This is the culmination of three books' worth of buildup, and I'm so anxious not to disappoint all of you who've been following the story. I welcome any and all constructive criticism—honest! I want to improve as a writer. I would love to hear from you.


	22. Chapter 22

Sam couldn't sleep. He spent most of the night in the library, digging through lore books, searching for something that could generate a ten thousand degree fire. But he couldn't concentrate. Morning crept closer by the hour, like a relentless stalker. 

Dean had shut himself in his room after dinner. Sam hadn't seen him since. Ruthie had slipped silently from room to room gathering her things, avoiding eye contact, already a ghost. Sam hadn't begged or pleaded. That hadn't worked last time. No, this was Dean's mess. He was the only one who could clean it up. 

But apparently, he wasn't even going to try.

Sam's hands clenched into fists on the thick book he was failing to read. He hated feeling so helpless. He wanted Ruthie to stay. He thought they'd settled this in Reeds Spring: she was supposed to stay with them forever. And eventually, Dean would run out of excuses and willpower, and he and Ruthie would be together. Be a couple, be happy. Hell, maybe even get married. That's what Sam had believed. It's what he'd wanted for Dean for as long as he could remember. Having someone, being with someone who understood The Life, who wouldn't ask him to give up hunting, because she knew it was in his blood. 

And they'd found her. Or rather, she'd found Dean. She was like a miracle, a gift-wrapped delivery from heaven, dropped in his lap. Perfect for him. Perfect for each other. 

Dean loved her. Sam had known it long before Ruthie's blood had killed the kounoúpi. And yet, he was letting her go. Making her go, apparently.

Sam sank back in his chair and wiped his hands over his face. He ought to get some sleep if they were going to Ohio tomorrow. But he didn't want to go without Ruthie.He stood and headed for his room. In the morning, he'd beg her to reconsider. Dean might be too proud, but Sam wasn't. He'd plead for a little more time, promise to talk to Dean for her. Maybe come right out and tell Dean exactly why Monica had died. Get them to sit down and talk it out.

If that didn't work, he still hadn't ruled out the dungeon.

 

* * *

 

Sam woke early despite his short night, as anxious and strained as when he'd fallen asleep. He hurried through a shower and started coffee, but didn't cook breakfast. He had no appetite. He'd make something for Ruthie if she was hungry. Dean could fend for himself. 

Sam waited in the kitchen, sipping his coffee, trying to formulate an argument that might make her stay. He believed if she'd just hang in there a little longer, surely Dean would come to his senses. 

He expected her to appear in the doorway any minute, but time slipped by with no sign of her. Sam finished his coffee and poured a second cup. Halfway through that one, she still hadn't showed. He allowed himself a flicker of hope. Maybe she was wrestling with her decision. Maybe she was as torn up over the idea of her leaving as he was. If that were the case, he wanted to nudge her along in the right direction. He left his half-drunk mug on the table and headed for her room. 

He listened at the closed door for a minute, but didn't hear anything. Was she still asleep? That didn't seem likely, when she'd slept through most of the previous day and night. After a moment's hesitation, he knocked on the door. There was no response. He cracked the door open. "Ruthie?" Still nothing. 

Heart beating faster now, he pushed the door open and switched on the light. She wasn't there. Her bed was made; the picture of her with her dad was missing from her cleared-off desk. Sam pulled open a couple dresser drawers—emptied. 

He turned and ran down the hallway, pulse pounding in his throat. He rushed into the bathroom. "Ruthie?" His voice echoed in the empty room. 

Had she suspected he might refuse to take her to the bus station, and slipped out alone while they slept? She hadn't said where she was going. She hadn't even said goodbye. 

He charged back through the hallway to Dean's room. He burst through the door and flipped on the light. "Dean, she's gone!" 

Dean lay on his side, facing Sam. He scrunched up his face against the light. "What?"

"Ruthie. She's gone!" 

Dean squinted at him, looking entirely too calm. "You sure about that?"

"She's not in her room; she's not in the bathroom or the library. She didn't come to the kitchen—why are you still just laying there? Get up; we have to find her!"

A movement right behind Dean made Sam jump. A head of disheveled dark hair and an olive-skinned shoulder appeared. Twinkling brandy eyes peeked at him over Dean's arm. "Hi, Sam."

Sam's mouth fell open. 

Ruthie and Dean. Dean and Ruthie. There they were. It was finally happening. Was he dreaming?

He ought to turn around, ought to leave and shut the door, but his feet were cemented to the floor. 

“Uh…hi,” he said stupidly. 

Dean cocked an eyebrow at him, but Sam saw the corner of his lip twitch. 

"So, then…you’re staying?" Sam asked Ruthie.

The corners of her eyes crinkled. Her hand appeared, and she slipped it into Dean's, intertwining her fingers with his. "I'm staying."

Sam let the relief wash over him like a wave. He exhaled; his feet came unglued from the floor. He knew it was weird to keep looking at them, but he couldn't resist one more glance on his way out. He didn't try to hide the giant grin that stretched his cheeks. "It's about time." 

He shut the door behind him and returned to the kitchen, feeling as though he'd never be able to stop smiling. He sat at the table and drank his coffee, grinning alone in the room like an idiot, and not caring. 

An idea occurred to him, and he didn't bother running it past Dean. He drained his mug and headed for the garage. 

Ruthie’s packed duffel bag sat beside the Impala. Sam let out another sigh of relief. Starting up the engine, he thought about the warehouse fire and the spontaneous combustions. Delaying their hunt might cause some unintended consequences in Ohio. 

He shook his head and backed out into the bright sunshine anyway. Dean and Ruthie were going to have a day or two alone, even if it meant him stranding them in the bunker without a car. Just this once, his brother wasn't going to sacrifice for the greater good. Sam wasn't going to let him. 

This time, the world and its problems could wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear readers, this concludes Book 3 in the Wayward Son series. The fourth and final installment is underway, and I'll begin posting it as soon as it is polished. Thank you for joining me on this adventure!
> 
> Speaking of adventure, I have a special announcement. I will be publishing my original novel, Second Life, in time for Christmas! I'm seeking readers who are willing to leave an honest Amazon review in exchange for the free e-book, before it is available to the public. Receiving lots of reviews is the best way to move a book up the search lists, and your support would mean the world to me. Here's a teaser for Second Life:
> 
> When a young archivist meets her celebrity crush just before a deadly attack, she must decide if she will risk her life to save him. Even if they both survive, they'll be separated by an ocean, by his fame—by her integrity. And he never even got her name.
> 
>  
> 
> If you're interested, please leave your email address in a separate comment. (I review and approve all comments, and I'll keep your email address private.) Thanks again for all your support and encouragement!


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